


Rolling Away

by drD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Neville Longbottom, F/F, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-11 13:39:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10466280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/pseuds/drD
Summary: For Hermione, Hogwarts is nothing like what she assumed it'd be. Neither is The-Boy-Who-Lived. Something really dark is going on and Hermione isn't sure how to fix it. Her only choice is to survive it, but the soft-spoken boy with the toad seems to prefer she embrace it. Either way, it's all a lesson in culture and the appropriate way to seek a proper education. Dark AU.





	1. Year 1-2

**Author's Note:**

> Had to get this idea out of my head.
> 
> AU, quite possibly some OOC -- though the OOC comes from a divergence of important events impacted by one odd acting Boy-Who-Lived.
> 
> Enjoy.

“Do you really suppose that’s appropriate?”

The first time she heard his voice it was through the thick sliding door of a Hogwarts Express compartment. Though muffled it was still somewhat sharp, barely slurred by the lazy drawl in which it’d been delivered.

“This behavior. These words?”

It wasn’t her original intention to put her ear to the door, but she was drawn toward the speech, toward the inflection and the overtly done innocence barely covering what she hoped to be an obvious intellect. At her side stood another boy, ordinary and droll, awkward as he grew into his own body and sense of self--with face barely dry from a few shed tears. 

He’d lost something, her mind whispered.

She was supposed to help him find it.

She grunted and waved him away while she mouthed ‘ _Just a moment if you would.’_

Her curiosity held her captive, for now.

“I think I’d enjoy being friends with the both of you, if I were honest--”

“Harry--”

“--Potter!”

Two voices, just as adolescent as the first and yet _lacking_ the careful refinement of the former whined in affronted desperation. Her lips twitched, she snorted. _That_ was something she didn’t miss from primary school.

“Weasley, Malfoy,” The voice groaned, “Let me finish?”

There’s silence in the compartment for just a moment and during that time she is hard-pressed to hold her breath. The hallways aren’t as full as they were but a few moments prior. They would no doubt begin their journey soon and she had yet to find a proper seat. Perhaps… in there?

No, not yet. She had to help the other boy, Longbottom, wasn’t it? With his silly frog. What a bother--

But she was helpful, _incredibly_ helpful. She had to show them she had _some_ use here.

The first voice continued--Potter, **The** Harry Potter, Hermione presumed with excited elation, “You’ve both said some nasty things, and I’ve just come from a nasty place. So… I don’t want to be friends with _nasty_ people.”

The third voice, the one decidedly not ‘Weasley’, croaked, “I assure you I am not nasty.”

Weasley, seemed to be of a different opinion. “Says the boy with the wicked family. Bet you’ll be another Slytherin, I do! Nothing but the worst sort of folk come from Slytherin, it’s true.”

There’s another bout of silence while Hermione imaged the ‘Slytherin’ as red-faced and offended.

“That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about, _Ronald_.” Potter divulged, all exasperation and very little patience. “Nothing but the worst sort of folk come from Slytherin? That’s a broad generalization.”

“But it’s true,” Ronald was quick to retort, “My Father said so. He said nothing but Death Eaters, each and every one of ‘em. All very _Dark_ , like the sort that killed your family. Malfoy here, his father was the _worst_ of ‘em. Real trash, I bet, just like all Sly--”

There’s a sudden sound of movement in the compartment, a squeal and a sort of wild strained screech of--”How dare you!”

Longbottom, the boy from before, wails down the hall.

Darnit--

She quickly turns to leave, her mind a whirlwind of curiosity and confusion.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The next time she hears _his_ voice is when they are in line to be sorted. It’s an overwhelming and rather exciting affair, and she can’t keep the thunderous pound of her heart from buzzing about the inside of her head. He’s asking a question of some sort, his voice a slight roll of idle curiosity, but his gaze lacks the _wonder_ reflected in her own.

How very peculiar.

She hadn’t had a chance to meet the Potter boy in his compartment. Her time had been eaten away by Longbottom and his toad--which, had been thankfully found but the tedium of the search had been… less than pleasant. She had no idea what had happened between them, only that a red-haired boy looked pouty and cowed at his side and oblivious to most of what was being said by his companion.

Rude.

She turned, just slightly, to rattle off a fact in their direction and while the redhead rolled his eyes _he_ took the chance to look toward her with a curious tilt of head and wrinkled nose. The look in his eyes was… off. The boy--Potter, she reminded herself--inspected her more like she was a piece of meat, instead of a potential fountain of knowledge, which she certainly was the latter.

Inwardly, within some recess of her mind, she hoped he found her acceptable. Friendship was a difficult concept for her, she hadn’t acquired a collective before the reveal of her magic. Maybe--

“Hermione Granger.”

Ah, nevermind that. There were other things on her mind than the spiraling green of Potter’s gaze or the intensity that dwelled within them.

So, suppressing her shiver she stepped up to the Hat, already determined on the house where she should be placed. This year would be different, she would be brave--

She hoped.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Whispers, they followed her.

Swot, they called her. A know-it-all.

_Insufferable._

What was so wrong with that? With wanting to understand? With gathering the needed knowledge necessary for success? Sure, she had a few convenient though ultimately useless facts rattling about her brain but everything else she had ever offered up had been decidedly helpful, right?

Well, certainly no one else within her year was as brilliant as she was, _helpful_ as she was. The teachers could see that, couldn’t they? With each wave of her hand she took great care to express an eagerness to please. These people, these witches and wizards, her peers, they could respect that.

Yes?

Yes.

Certainly, if they couldn’t respect _her_ , they could at least respect that.

“Granger.”

She stopped, books clutched tightly against her chest, her bottom lip pulled between her two front teeth--goodness, if only she could change that aspect of her person--and turned to glance over her shoulder. She had made sure the hall was empty, if only so she could escape the whispers.

“Potter,” She croaked, “Malfoy.”

The boy was always with him, the one with the blonde hair and the easily summoned sneer. He made her… rather uncomfortable, despite his boyish charm and regal airs. It was the way he looked at her, as if she were...

Well, filthy.

Muddy.

He took no care in hiding his disdain, and Potter-- Mr. Potter--did nothing to defend her from it. Why was that, exactly? When she’d been so helpful to him? When she sat next to him at the Gryffindor table and helped him correct his homework and understand the majesty that was Hogwarts itself? He didn’t _seem_ to mind her company, and he didn’t snort and huff like _dear Ronald_.

He didn’t say much of anything to be clear. He spoke to Longbottom often enough, and seemed to tolerate Ronald, but he didn’t… well, he _wouldn’t_ hold a conversation with her.

Why was that?

_Why…_

“I don’t know why you insist on talking to _that_.” Malfoy drawled, disdain a constant companion in every word.

“She’s my friend, Draco,” Harry said, his tone light and innocent, but his eyes were narrowed.

She wasn’t certain if this was how one should look at their friend, with the beginnings of twisting shadows and flickering green. But, she was also not the expert on friendships and the books… well, the books weren’t a substitute for true practical experience.

“It’s only proper to greet her, appropriately.” He came closer, all smiles and crinkled eyes that reminded her painfully of something beyond her naive rudimentary comprehension. He seemed older, even though, it should have been her that carried such a powerful commanding presence.

He gently touched her shoulder, but his _grip_ was painful enough to make her wince.

“See you in the common room, Granger.”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered as she watched them both stalk by, Draco with a disinterested snort and Harry with a smile that bordered between friendly and something predatory. “Likewise, Potter.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

It hurt. Merlin, it _hurt._

All her hard work, her extensive studying, her attempts at proper social interaction--

_Worthless._

Nothing had changed. Whether she attended the school of her origin or the school of her new beginnings, each child was as vicious as the last. She’d thought that, here at least, she’d become something _more_. That, here, among those with magic, she could be…

What?

_Better?_

Just… noticed. Just… something, something other than her mind and inability to...properly interact with those her own age. She thought they’d think her clever, that they’d flock to her genius, but they mocked her in the shadows, hissing cruelty, and spewing discontent. She performed, oh did she perform, like a well-trained dog. She danced to the strings of her professors begging for scraps and trying to overshadow--and that was only a portion of what they’d said. But, she’d done it all in the pursuit of friendship. She wanted it to be different, desperately. She wanted to _be_ different… desperately.

Well, she was different. A different sort of intolerable. A bore. A rule-totting insufferable 

What was it Malfoy had said?

_Mudblood._

And Potter, Mr. Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Boy-Who-Smirks, he’d only given her a pat and laughed--

“He’s right, you know. You’re are a bit insufferable. Perhaps you should spend less time, bouncing in that seat, and waving your hand, and more time being a bit self-aware? Inquisitive? No need to brag, is all. We know you’re smart.”

She could barely breath after that, barely think past the statement that swept through her mind with all the malicious intent it had been delivered with. It did no good that Ronald had picked that moment to approach them, after she had turned her back and searched for the strength to control the painful thump of her heart and the rattling squeeze that seemed to pinch her lungs.

“I don’t get it,” He’d snarled, unaware or most likely uncaring that she was there and could hear him clearly, “Don’t you think I’d make a better mate than _her,_ of all people? What is it about Granger that you cling to?”

She froze with tense shoulders, ignoring the pain that strained her muscles and the burn that spread across her cheeks.

“I mean,” Ronald continued, no doubt boastful if his tone was any indication, “she can’t possibly have any friends beyond you, if what you’re doing with her could be called that.”

And how dare he, really? After she had helped him with his worthless ability. After she had explained, rather carefully--if not a bit arrogantly--the proper pronunciation of a spell that was rudimentary at best? Why was it that others in their house still flocked to him when her magical prowess had been so much better?

Potter hummed thoughtfully behind her back, but didn’t answer, didn’t defend her.

She didn’t think he would have.

So, she’d fled, as if her running from the issue could make it disappear entirely. Yet, in her experience, life didn’t work like that. One’s suffering followed them wherever they went. Whether it came from Malfoy, with his dark gaze of grey and the storms of his hatred, or Ronald who could barely appreciate the flick and swish of a properly cast spell, she would always be haunted.

It was rather disheartening, and she felt entirely too foolish, to swept up in the embarrassment that came with… with wanting something so badly, with wanting to be a part of something bigger than herself.

Her fruitless wishes only made her pain all the more unbearable. The heavy ache of her chest made her feel sloppy and overwhelmed. There was nothing for her there, in that tiny stall, where she’d curled into a ball, but her muffled sobs and the fog that swept across her consciousness bringing with it a parade of self-damaging thoughts.

It was ruined, all of it, every piece she’d tried to carefully build. All of it, ruined.

 _She_ was ruined.

And… and…

Goodness, what was that smell?

She snuffled noisily, past the dripping snot that leaked from her nose. A stench unlike anything she’d ever experienced before wafted past her, strong enough to make it past her swollen sinuses. She jerked to attention, blinking away an access of tears and trying to clear her blurry sight. Something wasn’t right.

No, something was horribly wrong.

She felt weak, exhausted by her emotional burden and her limbs were heavy and awkward as she scrambled to her feet. The ground trembled with the telltale signs of _danger_ and beyond the flimsy safety of her closed stall she could hear the heavy wheezing breath of something entirely inhuman.

Or, just human enough.

A heavy dose of fright claimed her, made her palms slick with sweat and her gaze wide as trembling fingers applied just enough pressure to the door in front of her. Her intention had been to peek between an exposed corner of the door, just enough to catch sight of the terror before her.

What a horrid idea that had been.

Her tight throat, raw from her frantic sobs, was still more than capable of releasing a wretched scream at the sight of greying flesh and a grotesque frame. That was more than enough to bring the massively tall creatures attention to her and, had she been a bit self-aware, she would have found her devolution into hysterics disgusting.

But, there’s a difference between learning to be brave and being it.

With a choke strangled sound of terror she jerked backwards, felt the cool slimy press of moist bathroom walls against her back and the awkward dig of the toilet against her hip and thigh as she tried to squeeze behind it.

An… impossible, idiotic feat but instinct screeched at her to hide even as a tiny voice in the back of her head mumbled at the ridiculousness of her half-haphazard plan.

The beast gurgled, or growled, she wasn’t certain. She could barely hear past the harsh buzzing between her ears. All she could do was keep her wide, unblinking gaze, upon the creature as it raised the slab of wood it carried with the intent of smashing her.

Well, she thought, you tried.

_Just not hard enough._

But a spark of light shot toward it, making it stumble forward and lean heavily over her stall. That was enough to draw another scream past her lips. Yet, it seemed disinterested in her and with a twisting of its lopsided mouth it shambled away from her stall to be drawn toward the source of those sparks of lights.

She remained huddled in place, knees weak and drenched in the sweat generated by her fears. Spots of black danced in her vision as she turned a barely focused gaze beyond the torn asunder door of her stall. There, a blotch of black and blonde did battle with a much larger smudge of grey. There was yelling and the sounds of destruction. The creature smashed a couple sinks and water spewed from broken piping like disrupted geysers.

Malfoy yelled, or so she thought, and Potter seemed awfully calm about it, commanding the obedience of the other boy despite looking drenched and out of place among the spewing water. The troll, on the other hand, only appeared all the more vexed from their combined distraction, undamaged by what must have been relatively harmlessly thrown First Year spells.

It is unbecoming to huddle like a coward--the thought is invasive, sudden, and harsh-- _get up._

Like a puppet jerked on strings she hobbled to a proper stand. Her wand, once forgotten, now palmed tightly in hand. She sniffled, trembling, cold and weary, confused and horrified, but she moved with barely any conscious thought to thrust out her wand toward the hand of the beast--which is rising rather high with club in hand, no doubt to smash the children attempting to fight it.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa,_ ” Hermione said, with a voice that seemed far too steady compared to the knock of her knees and the toes that curl within wet and ruined dress-shoes. The spell is flung, perfected and sufficient, but not as impactful as her instinctual mind might have thought. It jerked the creature’s hand, but its grip is sure, and distracted it turns its gaze to the slab of wood it cannot move nor control.

It twisted around to face her with a snarl, intention clear and rage thick and suppressive. Her magic faltered, her fear returned, but Potter--

Well, he had never been afraid, had he?

His wand points, his lips move, and Hermione isn’t sure if he’s actually saying anything or not--though her mind would later deny the idea of a speechless incantation. He is a child, just as she is, and doesn’t seem all that spectacular in class. Such a feat is an impossibility, basic logic would make that clear. Yet, the impact is there and the club was torn from the grip of the screeching monster only to be raised above it and… dropped.

Though powerful, it isn’t particularly fast nor reactive enough to catch what it once held. The sound of meat and crushed bone is loud against the backdrop of heavy breathing and spraying water, and the beast falls to its knees with all the intention of collapsing… on her.

_MOVE!_

She isn’t sure where the thought, or the power in her legs, came from but she lunged out of the stall and rolled away just as the creature--a troll, her mind spews, now performing at full capacity--tumbled forward to collapse upon her former place.

Well then.

She remained on the ground, trembling, her heart a jack rabbit beating on her ribs, her breath coming in great gulps and despite her earlier pain all she can feel is uncontrollable elation. What a… what a rush. The way the magic flowed from her chest to her fingertips, the horrific excitement of near destruction--

No, no, no, none of that is appropriate _at all._

She swallowed harshly, keeping back bile and other such nonsense just as the rapid slap of expensive shoes on tile reached her ears. The world is swirling, her vision tilts, and the most she can see is a gaggle of professors--or what she can assume to be professors since they are just a gaggling of colors--before her gaze is aligned with Potter. Just as one of the larger colors began to assault him with questions she can see him… smile.

There’s nothing friendly in it.

But her heart swells with warmth anyway.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Granger.”

Her tired gaze is reluctant to leave the page it’s on, but it’s not like she’s reading anything very important. She’s just exploring a couple of passages in _Hogwarts: A History_. Mostly, she’s just interested in the Sorting Ceremony and how the magic really works for it. She’s suspected a couple of… wizards and witches aren’t really where they’re supposed to be and--

“How can I help you, Potter?” Her voice is steady but inside her heart is a rapidly beating mess.

At his side Malfoy sneered, but there’s a new addition to the duo, one pale-faced Longbottom who seemed as frazzled as she felt within. For a split moment, there’s an ache added to her nervous anticipation, a vicious wicked compulsion to ask why she isn’t the one in that spot.

She narrowed her eyes at her own… intensity and pushed the thought away, back to the far recesses of her mentality, where most of her worrying ideas sat and festered. The Troll Incident had changed very little in their dynamic. Harry still tolerated her presence, even after she’d tried to get closer, and her life had fallen into… a worrying type of normality that consisted of studying _alone_ , and avoidance.

If a near death experience was supposed to make someone feel closer to another, then that was a load of rubbish.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Harry stated, but it sounds so simple coming from his mouth that she nearly missed the idle crease of his lips in displeasure.

“I…,” Her tongue is frozen. Had she been avoiding him?

She took a steadying breath and tried again, “I’ve been busy. You’ve been busy. I haven’t been avoiding you.”

She’s a bit unsettled, he’d never been interested, had never sought her out on his own, and Malfoy, well--

“Now the Mudblood has taken to lying along with her various other faults.” His tone is one of complete abhorrence as he idly toyed with the end of his green and silver tie. It’s enough to stir… something in her. Some… hot crackling sensation that makes the back of her head tingle and her palms itch. Her magic shifts, called unbidden, eager and ready---

She swallowed harshly, “There is nothing muddy about my blood.”

But her hiss is ignored.

“You’ve been avoiding him, Granger, because you owe him a life debt.”

Hermione rose from her seat with enough force to push the chair back on its end. If she cared about the collapse of it on the floor or the loud sound it made against what was normally a quiet space, she didn’t care. Let the mistress of the library come to her, if she so wished, she would not sit here and be suspect to nonsense--

“A what now?” She snarled, lips turned up in a brief flash of the utter irritation that curled through her belly.

Longbottom stepped forward quickly then, placing himself between Hermione and the boy that had, effectively, ruined the bulk of her year, “A life debt, a bond formed between two parties when one's… life is saved.”

It was only Longbottom’s pleading gaze that gave her pause, “And you… believe I have been running from this obligation?’’

She’d been unaware, ignorant to this piece of information--

“This is what I’m talking about, Potter,” Draco drawled, “They come here, with very little sense and even less information on our traditions and priorities and just about spit on everything a proper wizard holds dear.”

Her mouth flapped open with indignation. If she was not aware of some backwards custom--something as medieval as a life debt--than she couldn’t possibly be blamed for that. She had not grown up a bloody witch, she hadn’t--

“Then, this is a good time to learn a very important lesson,” Harry offered cheerfully, “After ‘The Incident’--” Here Harry paused to physically add quotation marks to his statement with two curled fingers, “It is expected that a witch or wizard will come to their savior and accept their life debt. I’ll forgive your ignorance, Granger. It’s not something someone of your status would really understand and no one is forcing you to learn.”

The comment was vicious in its own right, a blanket statement of her inadequacy, blood and all. She chewed her bottom lip but there was no threat of tears, not this time. Instead she felt… off, numb perhaps? In another body. Ashamed.

“Stop,” She whispered, defeated. “What do I need to do?”

To make this right, to stop these _looks._

Longbottom gave her a nervous smile and slowly, he lifted his hand to place against her arm, as if he understood what she was going through. But he couldn’t, not really, he wasn’t trapped like this, by his blood, by his faults… not in the manner she was.

Draco only sneered, but Harry’s smile was brilliant, if lacking any kindness.

“Give me your hand.” He chirped.

So she did.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The rest of her year was unexciting. Potter became rather busy toward the end of it, what with Quidditch practice--how he’d managed that, she wasn’t sure. Their first flying lesson had been an uneventful mess and due to her own nervousness about flying on a piece of wood she hadn’t paid much attention to Potter when he’d gotten into an altercation with Ronald a few classes later--and anything else he had up his sleeve. With his business came a lack of Malfoy to bully her--though others had picked up the slack in his stead.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re back.”

“Me too,” Granger whispered under her breath, her gaze and excitement sullied… tarnished by the reality of her existence, “What do you want, Parkinson?”

“There isn’t much I could want, from someone like you,” She snorted, a very unlady-like action for a supposedly superior pure-blood, “Just came to express my… surprise, is all.”

Then, with a smile that made her look all the more wicked she upturned her nose--now that was very Slytherin, wasn’t it?--and shut the door to her compartment.

Yes, last year had been very unexciting near the end of it. Almost calming once she’d… understood what to expect but this year would no doubt be just as… odd.

Unfulfilling. Painful.

Best to just… stick to learning. She only had six more years to go, after all.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Hello there.”

Hermione jerked in her seat, the warmth of the body pressed next to her sudden and abnormal. People didn’t touch _her_ , not even those in her own house seemed to go out of their way to be in her presence. Her roommates talked to her, sometimes, but it was brief and awkward and all together unpleasant. Especially since Lavender Brown could barely talk about much beyond boys and wizarding fashion.

So, who was this girl with her dreamy smile Ravenclaw colors?

“It’s a bit unfortunate, I thought I felt a Wrackspurt and then I saw you here… alone.”

Always alone.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting with your own house?” Hermione snapped, her tone harsh beneath her breath before she frowned, “And… what is a Wrackspurt, exactly?”

“Ah, well now--”

“Lovegood, what’s this? Spending time with the muck? You certain that’s a good idea?”

Malfoy.

With hunched shoulders and a gentle release of breath Hermione reached out for her bag. Not even lunch was sacred anymore and without Potter there to run interference there was no telling what, exactly, might spew from Malfoy’s lips. The fact that the few remaining Gryffindors in the space were scattered and pointedly not paying her much attention didn’t help anything at all. 

Not even Ronald, who she was certain was late for some sort of class, could provide her any worth in the end.

“There’s gold in the dirt, a great amount of it, actually.” Luna stood, her eyes closed and her face serene, “ _He’s_ making an investment. It’s a brilliant idea.”

Her look was mirrored in Malfoy’s own--one of blank bewilderment--before Luna gracefully twisted away with an idle wave over shoulder and hobbled back toward a red-haired Gryffindor--a new girl, a Weasley, Hermione reminded herself.

“What a load of rubbish,” Malfoy mumbled.

For once, she had to agree. 

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Are you scared, Mudblood? Frightened?”

Terrified and half crazed, more like it.

“Go away, Malfoy. Please.” Hermione cringed, hating the idea that she was begging or whining or anything of the sort. Yet, what else was she do to? Pretending the issue didn’t exist wasn’t getting her anywhere and it seemed like all of Slytherin were taking great pleasure in her distress. The whole of Gryffindor just seemed worried, the same as the other houses, sans a few oddities--

Ginerva Weasley just looked confused and off, most of the time. There was something a little strange about her hunched over figure and the odd mutterings she kept giving off. Let alone that book that was always in her possession, but Hermione couldn’t be bothered with it, she was a Weasley after all and Ronald was a very overprotective, controlling, hovering brother.

And then there was Potter, who seemed amused by the entire ordeal, as if he were hearing about an interesting fairytale and not an obvious disaster. The Heir of Slytherin was a cruel figure, imaginary or real--and Hermione thought it very real, if the petrified Colin Creevey was any indication--and the idea that he would allow some monstrosity to go about killing students…

Well, Muggle-borns, such as herself.

Was abhorrent.

“You haven’t much time, you know. The monster is coming to gobble you up.” Malfoy’s laugh was an ominous thing, enough to suck what little energy she has from her person.

“How is it,” She starts, voice strained with loathing, “that you can be so vile?”

His upper lip twisted above his teeth, displaying perfect and pearly whites. “And how is it that you can be so utterly clueless?”

He turned his face away from her then, letting silence reign between them in the nearly empty library before he spoke again, “You’re an affront to our very nature, and the fact that you don’t understand why--”

Hermione slammed her hands on the table, balled up fists knocking over her ink and quill. She ground her teeth to keep back heavy panting and to control the tight heat that ravaged her chest and threatened to erupt past her throat in a screech, “I’ve done nothing to you! Nothing, Malfoy! How am I such an affront--”

“--you’ve done everything! Everything to this world, this world that is _mine_ \--”

“--so selfish, can you not even share? I have just as much right--”

“ **BUT YOU DON’T.”** Malfoy yelled, his tone a thundering scream that caused several heads to turn in their direction with disgust. Furthermore, Madam Pince was walking toward them briskly, red in the face and mouth open in preparation for a rant.

Yet Malfoy wasn’t finished, with his flustered face of red and loose strands of blonde hair nearly covering his gaze that swirled with his aggression-- “You come to my world, to my school, with your supposed cleverness and overall irrelevance and think you are some gift to witches and wizards. Ultimately, you are _nothing_ , Granger, just one more _Mudblood_ to be fawned over by our illustrious Headmaster. One more Mudblood to change our ways and spit on everything a proper wizard has ever known. Our traditions, our customs, tossed aside to make you feel all the better. Meanwhile, my world, my very right as a wizard, is stripped to make way for your petty Muggle sensibilities. We shed our culture to make room for _yours_ while you can’t even put forth a little bit of _effort_ to understand the wonder and mysticism you claim to have a right to so much.”

He leaned closer while she held her breath, frozen, struck between fear of the approaching Madam Pince and fear of the boy that snarled as he reached out a hand. His fist trapped her as it curled among her tie and he yanked her closer as her face balled up in near physical pain--though her distress was all emotional.

“Have you even tried, Granger? Brightest Witch of our Age? Absolute garbage if you ask anyone with a lick of sense. There’s little bright about you. You’re a walking host of trash information, and while your spellwork is begrudgingly _decent_ you’ve done little more than wave your arm about like an enthusiastic dog. Where’s the proof that you are so much better than I? A wizard of near royal prestige. Why does the Headmaster and his no-thought professors award you points when other answers are just as good? When you have made no effort to really **learn**? How dare you enter my world and not even _bother_ to understand it, to _respect_ it?”

He let her go abruptly, shoved her backwards with enough force that she fell back into her chair and nearly knocked it over. She was lucky, in that respect at least, and soon clunked back with all four legs on the ground and a tear or two set to squeeze past burning eyes.

But she would not cry for him.

Not this time.

“Really Granger, it’s not that hard to see why the lot of you are worthless.” Malfoy was once more a collected example of pure-blood aristocracy, though his cheeks were splotched from his rage, and his trembling fingers were set to adjust the lapels of his fancy robes and tie, “You’ve stolen our magic and won’t even use it for a lick of _good._ ”

He took a deep breath, closed his mouth, but then opened it again right before Pince was upon them--

“It’s because of you that the lot of us are weak, the Muggles might as well come right on in and erase everything that we are.”

While Pince tore into them with the sort of verbal ferocity reserved for Seventh Year slackers Hermione stared, with empty eyes, toward her smudged notes and torn parchment.

Maybe…

Maybe he was right.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

She’d been surprised when the creature came upon her. Though she had expected something to happen to her, sooner or later. Especially with the way Potter had eyed her the days after Malfoy’s… explosion.

Maybe he _was_ the Heir of Slytherin? Those hushed strained murmurs in the hall had held some merit. Though, Hermione would have put her money on Malfoy himself.

Ah well, it didn’t matter now, not when her gaze connected with the creatures in the mirror she’d been using to check the puffiness of her eyes after another lovely afternoon of uncomfortable Gryffindor tension.

Perhaps, now she could have a little peace.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“You owe him again,” Longbottom said, his mouth somewhat full of chocolate from the frog he messily bit into, “Rumor has it Potter killed the basilisk.”

Slowly Hermione glanced up from her book, but she said nothing. Her tongue was lead, and her mind felt… dull. She was exhausted, though whether that was the fault of being petrified or just her own lackadaisical interest in reality she couldn’t be sure.

She said nothing.

“He’ll come to collect it after the summer, but it would… be better for you, Hermione--can I call you Hermione?--if you went to him first.”

He was digging around in his bag for something and slowly Hermione tilted her head, but the usual ping of eager curiosity she might have felt seemed faraway. Just a phantom echo of an emotion she might have experienced, long long ago.

A shame, that.

“He’s really not that bad,” Longbottom muttered, “Harry and Draco, that is.”

No, he wouldn’t be, Hermione thought, you’re pure.

She shivered a bit and reached over a hand to clutch her sleeved arm. There wasn’t anything different, her blood wasn’t actually muddy.

She’d learned that by checking… always checking…

No, she had company in her compartment this time. She really outta pay attention.

“Harry isn’t really close to anyone, but I think he has some interest in you.” From the depths of his bag Longbottom finally pulled out whatever he was looking for before he held it out to her, a cautious smile in place. “I really think this’ll… help you.”

She unclasped her hand from her aching arm and reached out for the book, which held no title due to the odd slash across it’s aged leather cover.

“Longbottom,” She croaked, her mouth heavy and clumsy from disuse--a combination of being petrified for half the year and her own silence thereafter.

“Take it, really. And call me Neville.” His smile widened slightly, “Harry helped me and I think… I think he wants to help you, but you need to help yourself first. You need to show… interest.”

Hermione gave the book another slow look, her gaze half-closed as her fingers traversed the cover. It felt… strange, like skin--well, she supposed that was appropriate, if this was true leather.

“It’s a book on our world. Gran gave it to me, incase I forget anything.” Neville blushed, “And I forget a bloody lot.”

Her lips twitched in the signs of a smile but she wasn’t sure if her face made the appropriate expression, “I… I’m not sure about this.”

“‘Moine,” Neville began, and she felt her shoulders grow tense at having her name shortened into something so familiar said toward her, “I think this will really help you understand… well… everything. It’s a bit of a rough read, sometimes, but if you keep an open-mind…”

Silence stretched between them as she looked at the book, but Neville sighed and spoke again, “Think of it as research. An experiment on really fitting in. On earning your place…”

Her head jerked up and she could only imagine the ferocity of her scowl. She was so sick and tired of being told--

“W-wait!” Neville was quick to reach out a hand to place on top of her own, and she thought, for just a moment, about yanking it from him. “What I meant was… s-show them you care! The book, honestly Hermione, just read the bloody book! I… w-w-want you to succeed!”

He searched her gaze. Whatever he found there gave him the strength to continue-- “They thought me worthless, you know. That I was just some Squib. They were forcing me to fit into the mold of sorts, kept reminding me of my Father and--”

His voice grew tight, he shook his head, but when he looked back toward her his expression was… powerful. A look of all consuming determination that shouldn’t have been so easy to replicate on his childlike face, “Harry believed in me, he knew I was good at _something_ , when everyone around said I was good at _nothing._ ”

He looked down for a moment and chuckled, some self-depreciating sound, “Especially Malfoy.”

Hermione sucked in a breath and closed her eyes.

“I know what it’s like. Not the exact experience, but the same cut of emotion--look at me.”

She opened her eyes again, surprised and compelled by the strength of his command.

“Next year will be the beginning of the end of… _this._ ” He gave an exasperated wave of his hand. “For me, for you, for both of us.”

“Why,” She whispered, “Why now? Why are you helping me?”

She couldn’t help but be suspicious. She was done with hope, and drained by her pains.

“Because, I could have been you. I have been you. You deserve better than that… even if I’m the only one that thinks it.” 

She gave a shuddering breath and leaned her head against the window as she watched the rolling hills of the countryside careen by. She barely noticed when Neville stood up and sat next to her and whimpered--how pathetic--when he reached out and held one of her limp hands. This was…

Was this _friendship_? 

“Next year, ‘Moine. You can do this. We’ll do it together. I’ll teach you how to navigate this world, I’ll teach you how to get their respect. We’ll succeed together. Next year.”

Her smile was unusual, and her eyes were bright, but she felt… different. She clutched the book and made a strained laugh. “Next year.”

“ _Next year.”_

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**


	2. Year 3

Her summer was interesting. The bulk of it utilized to gain a proper understanding of the book and it’s… heavily bias material. It was a book on pure-blood tradition and culture, something she had assumed, and it did little to ease the tight knot in her chest. What it did do, however, was educate her.

She’d wasted two years being uneducated.

Socially, she was a pariah. Any pure-blood at school would have avoided her, considering the many blunders she’d made. Outward complaining and subtle mocking of the wizarding world and their lack of ‘proper’ technology hadn’t done her any favors. While her Muggle-raised sensibilities had yelled that the bulk of the wizarding methods were backwards and uncouth magic had advanced Hogwarts in a manner she hadn’t originally perceived before. Furthermore, she’d come to realize that her existence was a bit of a… security hazard. That most wizards were… afraid.

Afraid of being hunted, of being revealed to Muggles who may or may not seek to control them in much the manner their very own Ministry did. One day, should she _hate_ them enough, she could expose their entire operation for what it was--a secret society of unknown and powerful beings. A Muggle-born could go screaming to the nearest Muggle about some grave magical insult or misunderstood ritual and… well. The Witch Trials were a major pure-blood fear, that was certain. She wasn’t sure how old the book Neville had given her was but it seemed like a great deal of magic had been lost to protect Muggles. A great deal of knowledge… locked away or claimed as _Dark_ because it might upset delicate Muggle sensibilities. Holidays, or rather ceremonious rituals, were forgotten or banned due to the fear that it might be… confusing for a Muggle-born to witness it.

That was a load of rubbish, Hermione didn’t find the idea of Samhain frightening at all and if such a tradition was meant to raise power as opposed to merely gorging oneself on candy then…

Well, it was obvious which one Hermione preferred.

Power, it kept coming back to power, the power brought to them by their traditions and customs… the respect of their ancient ties to times of Merlin and Morgana, so much of it had been changed or…

Hermione sighed, the reasons why were irrelevant, but the Olde Ways were important to them and they were being eradicated for something new and not entirely useful, she had to admit.

As a Muggle-born her disadvantage was rather clear. Her Muggle views had already tainted her understanding of pure-blood culture or… wizarding culture overall. The Olde and Ancient families were expecting a certain amount of decorum and respect and while Hermione found the lot of it a little disconcerting she couldn’t shove aside the idea that, if she had at least _pretended_ to give honor where honor was due her school days would have been slightly better.

Instead, she’d joined the throngs of students who thought none of it mattered. She had swept in, dedicated to gaining power and a certain amount of influence, but in the wrong manner. She knew she had more prowess than most pure-blood wizards, who might have been practicing their entire life the magic they felt they had the Merlin given right to hoard, but throwing it in their face might have been a bit…

Well, childish.

Answering questions correctly didn’t make a witch clever or bright, it made her well-read and a decent studier. She had to be practical and proven, valuable, worth more than her brain. She needed… well she needed power. Socially, and literally.

And she needed to respect it, every single aspect of it.

At the time Hermione didn’t realize she could be so pragmatic, but it was her willingness to survive and a renewed thirst for knowledge--along with, perhaps, an unhealthy desire to conquer and excel--that gave her the ability to move forward.

This was their history, their lives, what they held dear--

And now it was _hers._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

She kept to herself the first few weeks. Though it had been difficult to find an entirely empty compartment on the Hogwarts Express and even more difficult to muster up the energy to carefully avoid Potter and his friends after the Dementor attack. If Neville looked at her a little disappointed that first Great Hall dinner, she didn’t pay it much mind. Malfoy, Parkinson, Potter, Weasley--they were all irrelevant at the moment. She had… things to do, projects to attack.

Odd… quirks to try and combat that were, perhaps, only made worse by the Dementor’s sweep of the train itself.

She panted slightly, her mind a whirlwind of contempt, her shoulders hunched and shaking as she drew her wand across her flesh--she had to check, _just one more time, **jUsT TO maKE SURE.**_

She wasn’t muddy, her blood wasn’t muddy, they were just words.

The odd heat that made her feel flushed eased and the twisting madness of constant mantra-crafted phrases left her tired and shaking.

Still, she smiled, her gaze glassy and dreamy as she watched the red dribble from yet another mark of… _inspection_ across the canvas of her flesh. 

No, it wasn’t muddy at all.

Which meant she had more work to do.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

When Potter approached, she was ready. 

Longbottom was in his company, along with Malfoy, whose grin was dark with intention while Neville looked nervous and saddened. They had a plan, a wicked purpose, her so-called friends, but she was prepared.

“I apologize for the delay,” Hermione said first, her hand raised as she stood from her library table. The other occupants at the far end barely paid her any mind, but their suspicious glances were enough to make her nervous.

She made sure not to display that outwardly.

“What’s all this?” A whisper hissed, “What’s Potter up to with her, _now?_ ”

“Silence, Weasley,” a voice, she remembered once or twice in the halls. Greengrass, wasn’t it? Daphne Greengrass, “Some of us are using the library for its intended purpose.”

“And is there a reason you haven’t yelled at them?” Seamus Finnigan said, while he pointed in their direction.

“Who cares what they do with the Mudblood,” Pansy snarled, though she seemed entirely disinterested, “Hush up before you bring Pince over here.”

Well.

She took a deep breath and stepped around the table, ignoring the idle gazes of the students there, “I wanted to do this properly.”

“Oh?” Potter said, brow quirked up in idle amusement. Neville’s gaze seemed to brighten and his lips twitched in mild pleasure and what Hermione also hoped to be encouragement. Only Malfoy seemed to frown at her words, his confusion rather obvious if his upturned wrinkled nose was any indication.

She ignored him.

If either of the three noticed the heavy bags under her eyes, due to her nights of research--in which, even the time-turner couldn’t help, though she was incredibly grateful for its presence as it allowed her to dive deeper into her studies and practice. All the while accessing the restricted section with little interference--they said nothing. Instead they watched her as she stiffly stood before them.

Then lowered to one knee--a more masculine action but she’d be damned if she tried a sloppy courtesy in here, among the other students— “Heir Potter, Lord of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter--”

She took a deep breath and swallowed harshly while risking a peek toward Potter. His expression was blank, but his companions were a mixture of emotion. Malfoy looked somewhat offended, though above all that was uncomfortable surprise. But Neville, Neville looked…

Incredibly relieved. The tension he’d held in his brow and shoulders melted away and this time, the smile he had, came unbidden and natural.

She continued, “I understand I owe you a life debt. Another, upon the first.”

The sound of shuffling came from down the table and a heavy silence descended upon the library. She didn’t dare look around to see what it was that had them silent. Instead, she kept her gaze steady, first upon Neville before it moved to Potter proper.

She continued to ignore Malfoy.

“I also apologize for the slight I’ve m-made… against your generosity and house. For… for my confusion when you first saved my life when I had done nothing valuable to warrant it. It is not your obligation to rescue me from my own foolishness.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, embarrassment warring with her determination to get this right. “I have a hard time admitting I am wrong.” She whispered, “But I have been.”

“I am honored to take this life debt. I am honored to fulfill it, Heir Potter.”

She swallowed harshly and felt the beat of their silence rub raw against her nerves, “Please.”

Potter tilted his head and for a moment she was incredibly worried. Had she done this wrong? Normally, a pure-blood family had a major collection of pensive with which they could explore and understand through the experiences of others. She had no such thing, no long line of undiluted blood to pick and peck at until she had years of impeccable training and prestige ingrained in her very being. But she could not fail again.

“Oi, Granger…” Potter whispered, but his smile was wide and for once it lacked that weird undercurrent of budding maliciousness, “I will certainly allow you to fulfill your obligations and accept your life debt.”

He gave a playful laugh, “Stand.”

With shaky legs, she stood, expression carefully controlled, another feat she struggled with but thought valuable considering the weaknesses she’d had expressed before. She was sure they could still tell she was nervous, if her twitching fingers were any indication, but she had finished and maybe she’d done something right.

“What are you playing at, Mudblood?” Malfoy hissed, livid and bewildered.

Hermione turned to him, her face carefully blank, but he flinched back and made a sound of indignation, as if he could cover up the action. She wasn’t sure what he saw there, she couldn’t control the intensity of her stare or the rolling emotion it conveyed. But she didn’t bother to repress it, the budding beginning of her… obsession, of her _need_ to succeed and surpass.

_This year… this year would be different._

“Heir Malfoy,” She drawled, casual and unwavering, a small success. “I am to understand that my presence is offensive to you. I will not begin to claim I fully understand your feelings, but I am beginning to understand the _why_.”

Because she was logical and yet marked by magic or bloodline prejudice.

“I apologize for my lack of effort.”

For being so naive, so stupid, as to think she could be so readily accepted.

“But this, this is something I own and deserve.”

She flicked her wrist and her wand flew into her grip, summoned off the table by the strength of her conviction and the magic that flowed, thick, through her veins. The magic that made her feel _alive_. She was more than just her blood.

He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes wide and tongue twitching, but Pince gave a nasty sound of impatience. Apparently, they had talked more than long enough--or maybe it was the fact that half the library was watching them instead of studying.

Neville looked at her, somewhat astonished and Potter seemed interested--in what? Her small bit of wandless magic? In the result of painful stress filled nights of careful practice?

She gave an idle wave of her wand, gaze still focused on the trio as her bag began to pack itself-- ”Guidance, Heir Longbottom. Will you continue to provide it?”

Neville’s gaze was enraptured by the bag behind her and once it was finally packed and in her grip, he moved a shaky hand through his hair-- “Bloody hell, Hermione. Yes, absolutely!”

Ronald abruptly stood from his chair, perhaps to inquire what sort of ‘guidance’ she deserved or some other such nonsense but she was already on her way out the door by the time he shoved over to the demand what was going on.

She left that conversation to Potter.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Sirius Black, the supposed Lord of the House of Black--”

“--The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, ‘Moine.” 

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s escaped and he’s after Potter?”

The Common Room was empty, the bulk of the house asleep, but if there was ever a time to indulge in ‘guidance’ from Neville, it was now.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Harry isn’t too worried though, even with Ron being a prat about the whole thing.”

“It’s because you’re keeping secrets, isn’t it?”

“Well, the secret is you, I guess.” Neville frowned slightly, before he shook his head and gently tapped one of Hermione’s expansive self-made bloodline trees with the tip of his quill, “This here, this is wrong I think.”

“Oh?” Hermione leaned over to stare at the name Neville pointed out, “Where should this be? And what do you mean I’m the secret?”

“Well, Ron seems to think we’re doing something ‘special’ with you. It’s foolish, really. I think he’s just upset he still hasn’t work his way into Harry’s good graces, since Harry is respected a great deal by some of us.” Neville paused for a moment and drew a circle around the name-- “This one, she married Charlus Potter. Not a lot of people, beyond the Sacred Twenty-Eight, would know that though.”

“Right,” Hermione made a brief correction with a tap of the quill and Dorea Black shifted over, “This… This is all a bit--"

“Incesty, yes.” Neville finished, but his lips were quirked in a small smile, “The major belief is that anyone else would be… destroying the bloodlines and lowering the potential of the magic. They say Mud--Muggle-borns just aren’t as powerful.”

Hermione ignored the slip and returned to writing on the massive spread out parchment, “And do you believe that?”

“I think some of it makes sense but only due to a lack of determination, not something like blood. Blood is meaningless, sans Family Magick or Bloodline Magick.”

Hermione briefly glanced up, “Family Magick? Bloodline Magick?”

“Olde Magick, not a lot of families have it anymore it’s all--” Neville blinked rapidly for a moment before he leaned back, “They don’t really speak of it…. How much do you understand about wizarding politics?”

“I understand it’s as confusing as Muggle politics.”

Neville chuckled a bit, prompting a small tired smile from Hermione, “‘Moine, come on.”

“Right then, the bulk of it is run by The Ministry, which is split into several departments. The Wizengamot draft up the procedures, the laws, checks and balances, that sort of thing.”

“Right, and the people in the Wizengamot are usually Olde Families.”

“The Sacred-Twenty-Eight?”

Neville nodded, “It keeps power with the--”

“Pure-bloods, yes,” Hermione mumbled a bit distractedly, her gaze unfocused. Power, it all came back to power. Power that she… needed. Power to be _safe_ , power to remain in this world.

“For the most part. Though, only the best of the best of that group get a spot in the Wizengamot. They have _seats,_ passed down through each generation of wizard or witch in the grouping, and each seat is a vote. Some houses can only vote once, some can vote twice, and it goes on and on depending on how many seats. The more powerful, socially and politically, the house the more seats and thus more authority.”

“And the Chief Warlock?”

“An impartial executive figure, really. The sort to oversee the proceedings and gain a lot of favor with the voting.”

“Mmm,” She murmured.

“It’s all a bit over my head,” Neville laughed softly, a little exasperated, “But every so often, if there is a summer session, I’ll go with Gran. She has a few seats, my Father’s really, and I’ll have to… take those over when I reach my majority.”

“When the time comes I’ll help you understand it.” Hermione offered.

“Of course.”

“Family Magick?”

“Oh, yes! Well, the Wizengamot sort of voted to not really talk about it as much.”

“That seems like a major thing to… not talk about,” Hermione frowned.

Neville gave a slight shrug of a shoulder, “It’s banned, it makes the Muggle-borns--”

“Nervous. They have nothing to pass down, essentially, or so we’ve been led to believe. They aren’t pure-bloods, it widens the divide of our differences.”

Neville gave a bit of a surprised blink but nodded, “R-right, and the current Chief Warlock, that’s the Headmaster, by the way--”

“Right.”

“Right, he… well he doesn’t want there to be any differences. He wants everyone to embrace… well, the Muggles and… well a lot of the Olde Families are rightfully upset.”

“Because we practice Halloween instead of Samhain.”

“”Moine…?” Neville couldn’t tell if she was being… passive aggressive or just incredibly introspective, but Hermione had done her research, she knew.

“I’m being serious, I understand it, more than I’d like. I’m a logical girl, under all this hair.”

“I--”

“In the past few years, for the sake of… Oh, let’s say progression, the Ministry has slowly torn away the power of several once powerful families. Halloween is just a flimsy holiday, some excuse for children to rot their teeth out.”

If Neville noticed her disgusted snort, he said nothing.

“Samhain is a time to commune with the dead, to raise power, to share it. I’m not sure of the specifics or… if I’d even be able to do it, I don’t have the family connection honestly but I know… I know that when people lose these important aspects of their very _selves_ , they become something else.”

“... You did more than just read it, the book.”

“Neville,” Hermione said, lips pursed, “You’re my friend. I want to understand you. Your family. What your Gran gave up, once pon a time. What everyone gave up so that I could have this chance to be here.”

“‘Moine…” Neville whispered.

“Because, I honestly don’t understand why we can’t bring it back.”

Neville swallowed harshly and she watched various emotions play across his face: fear, anger, pride, affection, and finally understanding.

“Harry, he told me that… they want us weak, to better control us and not give us the voice we need.”

Slowly, Hermione leaned forward, a frown upon her face.

“I don’t agree with all of it, but some of it… well my Gran grew up with this stuff, the Olde Family Magick. It’s something only family members can share, some special bond, a connection. Whether you’re married into the family or not, it’s a… gosh Hermione, _family_ is so bloody important, or used to be. Now it’s about what you should and shouldn’t do. Because of the Muggles. I… don’t want to hurt them but their very existence is hurting _me._ ”

Hermione remained silent, watching the idle flickers of pain dance across his eyes.

“It’s just that, the Headmaster--and Gran respects him so much, you know? And Father and Mum did too and… well, he says that some magic is just harmful and dark, evil--”

“Neville,” Hermione interrupted, “Magic is sentient, to a very stretchable degree, but it has no original intent. Magic cannot be _evil_. It cannot be _dark._ The witch or wizard is--and frankly, that’s more of an ethical or moral issue, than some issue of cartoon villainy… What do you suppose a Dark Witch or Wizard really is? Just a person unimpeded by government auctioned stipulations on the type of spells they can or can’t do, I imagine.”

“Well, hell Hermione, even I know that,” Neville gave a bit of a self-depreciating smile.

“No, goodness, I didn’t mean it like that I--”

“It’s fine, I understand.” He interrupted, “I know magic has no alignment. It’s this or that, hot or cold, wild or controlled, but Light and Dark? The Ministry writes the definitions. They claim Family Magick can be Dark, so now we have none of it. I want to share that with someone, you know? That connection Gran can only… vaguely remember.”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, caught up in Neville’s passion, “Is Bloodline Magick? Is that… the same?”

“Only in classification,” Neville snorted, “It’s just a type of magical ability that is trapped in the bloodline. It can be pretty arbitrary like... I dunno, the ease in which someone can draw up wards.”

“Or powerful, like a Metamorphmagus being born every few generations.”

Neville’s smile was broad, “Goodness, ‘Moine. You have been studying.”

Yes, yes she had.

“This year is supposed to be different,” She laughed lightly, “I’ve held up my end… to make it so.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Is it okay? For you to be around me like this?”

Neville shrugged, his smile still in place. Their potions class had been a glorious experience for him, for once. Even though the Slytherin’s in the class had been staring rather intently. It helped that Hermione had immediately forgone partnering with Lavender-- since, she would have been forced to do **everything** \--and instead had gone to Neville, a death sentence if any of the whispering around her had been proof. But Hermione was patient, _helpful_ , she had gently guided him into thinking about each individual ingredient instead of merely reciting information at him like a babbling book.

That was a lesson she’d learned the hard way, but one she intended to never forget.

She hadn’t answered any questions that class and Snape had been rather focused on Weasley to boot. Ronald, red in the face, only glared in her direction. Perhaps, he expected her to wave her hand like a wayward tentacle, desperate and grasping for any feeble amount of attention?

Not this time. She had much bigger things to focus on than showing the classroom how much she knew about crushed newt juice.

Gryffindor could earn their own points now.

But equally unsettling was how intensely Malfoy had stared at her, especially when she’d quieted down and merely worked on Neville’s nerves. She hadn’t tried to take over the cauldron. Hadn’t yelled at him about little mistakes. Her gentle correction and soft whispers had been encouraging and only slightly corrective.

He had the information, it was inside of him all along, he just needed… well, what he really needed was for Snape to leave him alone.

Still, the professor seemed surprised by their lack of an accident and had even bothered to award them each with one point. A mighty impressive feat for Neville.

“Draco whines about it, sometimes. Doesn’t understand how I could stand it--”

“Because I’m filth,” Hermione said, though her tone was rather light and the all-consuming urge to scratch and tear and _slice_ just to check had eased considerably.

“You aren’t.” Neville snarled, and Hermione almost stumbled to a halt at the power of his statement, “He’ll see. You aren’t.”

“T-thanks, of course I’m aware of that, um… but it is nice to be reminded.”

His smile was back in place, the dark rolling storms of his gaze set to fade, “Harry on the other hand is very pleased.”

“It’s the investment. It’s paying off.”

They both came to a halt as Luna Lovegood eased around the corner, a large potted plant in her dainty hands.

“The treasure is there, you’re almost done. Though, it may be a bit frightening from here on out. I’d embrace the adventure, but my hands are full.”

Hermione flared her nostrils as Luna hobbled over to Neville, who gleefully took the plant.

“There! Now my hands aren’t so full. We’ll go on the adventure together! Have a good year, Hermione Granger.”

And then she was gone.

“I don’t--”  
  
“She’s great! A bit weird, but great!” Neville’s jubilation was rather obvious. “I’m heading to the greenhouse, the professor is letting me use a spot--goodness, she’s just great! Come on then, quickly!”

His awkward hobble, for a boy with his arms full of plant, was rather fast but she managed to keep up.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

 

Divination was awful, filled with the false or maybe-not-so-false cries of Professor Trelawney.

Perhaps she should drop it, since it seemed like a waste of a time-turner flip. She might have, too, if Potter didn’t insist on sitting next to her during it. That made her… nervous.

“Heir Potter.”

Harry grinned, some sly boyishly charming thing that had little impact on Hermione, “How are you, my knight?”

For a moment, she frowned, before nodding slightly. She figured there was a link to vassalage and life debts. This was an honor, not a trap. But, Harry had a way with making her feel… small… captured. She hated such vulnerability. “Fine enough.”

“You haven’t slept all that well,” Harry said with quirked brow.

“I find myself a bit to paranoid to sleep, what with the Dementors and such.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully, perhaps accepting that as an excuse… but maybe he knew that she was… was obsessed with being more. Sleep was the last thing she actually committed to at night.

“Neville said he spoke to you about Olde Magicks.”

“He did.” Hermione whispered, her quill held just a bit tighter between her fingers.

“So,” Harry tilted his head, “How did that make you feel?”

“What is your game, Potter?”

“Game? No game. I’m a little curious. You see, no one can really hold a conversation quite like you. I admit, intelligence is lacking among the lion den and Malfoy is rather bias when it comes to this.”

He leaned forward, just a bit, his voice a rolling purr of delight. How… incredibly unlike him, “I just want to know your thoughts, Granger.”

“It’s all… rubbish. I don’t understand why Olde Magick is being suppressed and carted off as Dark. Especially something like Family Magick which, if I’m bloody honest, is probably still being practiced. Especially by Mr. Dark Heir Malfoy himself.”

Harry gasped, though she knew it was just a fake admonishment, “Ms. Granger! Your language!”

“Please. I’m not being held to the rules of decorum right now, if this is not a game.”

“And you suppose I’d wrap you up in a game without being honest about it first?”

“Yes,” Hermione hissed, “My entire life has probably been a game to you. Merlin knows how many times I screwed up first year and if I’d just had some guidance--”

“--You wouldn’t have taken it.” Harry stated, his tone so certain that she felt… uneasy, “It’s difficult to change self-damaging schools of thought.”

Immediately Hermione abandoned her quill and instead clutched her arm over the uniform sweater she wore.

“Mmm…” Harry hummed again, his gaze settled on her grip before he brought his startling green back to her mundane brown.

“I don’t like to play games with my knights, but I do like to test them.”

Silence stretched between them while the professor harked on about something or another before--

“You will start attending Samhain with me, won’t you? As my friend?”

Hermione doubted very much that she was Potter’s _friend._

“I would not want to offend Malfoy with my very existence, Potter--”

“Harry, you may call me Harry.”

“A-alright…” Hermione wrinkled her nose, “Harry.”

“Never you mind, Malfoy. It’s not the sort of thing he can attend anyway. We’ll be in Gryffindor Tower. He has his own rituals with Crabbe and Goyle, no doubt.”

“I see…”

“Remember, Granger--ah, Hermione. Samhain, with me.” 

This time, when he smiled, there was something fond in it… but something wicked too.

“I’ll give you a taste of what ignorance has forced you to miss.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Why isn’t there a Wizarding Culture class? To teach us these sorts of things? Things that will make it easier to survive?”

Neville gave her a pat on the arm as he led her into the Defence class, “I’m not sure, honestly.”

“It’s just, they expect us to be here more time out of the year than we aren’t and--”

“Ah, Longbottom… and the--”

Hermione took a slow breath as her arm ached, “The Mudblood, yes.”

Draco opened his mouth, snapped it shut, then snorted, “Ah well, I see you’ve learned your place.”

Neville gave him a rather steady stare, “Malfoy.”

“Yeah?”

“ **Move.”**

That one word held so much force, so much dripping authority, that Draco caught himself stepping backwards and scowled. “Whatever for?" 

“This one, this is the only one making an effort, you will not ruin _his_ plans. I won’t let you destroy yourself.”

Hermione cast an uneasy glance between the two of them, their vague conversation rather worrying. Draco, with his fists clenched and his teeth set to grind and Neville, confident--incredibly confident--and calm. The warmth of his palm against her back was different, comforting, right before it dawned on her that he was… defending her, somewhat.

She was… she was worth defending.

“Heir Malfoy.”

Draco’s trembling gaze slipped from Neville to herself.

“What?” He snapped.

“Heir Potter is trying to get your attention.”

Immediately the boy went still and turned to face a wildly waving Harry. Without another word, he stalked over, presumably to have some sort of private discussion, if his paling face was any indication. Though, as soon as he left their general vicinity Neville smiled that charming smile and lead her forward.

“I’m thinking Draco will take some time to sit with Parkinson today, so there’s plenty of room next to Harry for us.”

Oh, joy.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

 “What do you fear, Potter?”

Harry gave a soft tsking sound with his lips before gently poking her in the side with the tip of his very pointy wand, “What did I say about that?”

“H-harry,” She squeaked.

“Ah better, and my dear knight there is little I fear, sans complete and total failure.”

“The Boggart--”

“--was unable to take shape, though I feel like it might have turned into something incredibly perverse.”

Hermione made a face at that and Harry laughed at her expense, or rather, he laughed like someone well beyond her years.

“Maybe,” Harry said, “It would have turned into Professor Quirrell.”

Hermione laughed then, a bark of a noise, “He didn't’ even last the entire year.” For whatever reason, Hermione wasn’t sure, “Though his smell was rather frightening. Yet, I cannot believe the Mighty Chosen One Potter would be afraid of such a thing.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, “I’m awfully afraid of Lockhart.”

“Stop.” Hermione flushed red, embarrassed of a crush that no longer existed, “And he’s… well, little more than a vegetable I hear.”

The slight upturn of Harry’s lips is… unsettling.

“And you?”

“Me?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded.

“I…” She hadn’t had a chance to step before the Boggart. When Malfoy’s greatest fear had started taking on an incredibly suspicious student-shaped figure Professor Lupin had stepped forward and… “I suppose a great number of things.”

“What?” He whispered, conspiratorially, his eyes open and innocent, his expression harmless.

No… no no, he wasn’t harmless.

She trembled just a bit, felt some incredible feeling crawl up the length of her spine, something cold and chilling. Something _concerning_. She couldn’t tell if she were sweating, couldn’t tell if her palms were damp and why her heart beat so rapidly, so strongly.

“It’s… it’s…”

Slowly, Harry narrowed his eyes, and she swore… she could _feel_ his magic, his very being, something that tugged at her flesh and wriggled along the recess of her mind. Phantom sensations licked up her arms and she croaked as words froze in her throat. But, behind the thin veil of her fear there was something else there, something horribly addictive. A taste of true potential, of endless power, a need to be closer--

“Potter!”

Then it was over and she was _free_. She could breathe again and Harry snorted as he turned to welcome the newcomer. “Oi! Weasley! Can’t you see a fellow trying to study?”

She quickly gathered her things and left, leaving Potter to the flustered arm flailing Ronald, who kept yelling about a missing _rat._

_Disgusting._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Close your eyes.” 

Hermione took a deep breath and did as she was told.

“Block out your surroundings… focus… The first time can be odd. You only need to mediate; I’ll do the rest.”

“R-right.”

“Don’t be nervous. We’re alone.”

Well, not entirely. Though Potter had managed to clear out his dorm room-- not a hard feat since Ronald was at the feast and the rest of his roommates seemed to give Potter a respectful but wide berth-- Neville was still there. He was a comforting presence at her side, while Potter made up the head of their triangle. At the center, there flickered, three candles but the most unusual pieces were the runic circles of salt and chalk that surrounded them.

“Trust me,” Harry said, his voice that odd mixture of fondness and affection, the sort one might have for a child or… an interesting pet.

Best not to think about that.

“It’s difficult.” Hermione said.

“I know,” Harry replied, “But it must be done.” 

She took another deep breath. 

“I’m going to start. Remember, complete silence. Neville?”

“Ready, Harry.” Neville said, his voice relaxed, calm.

He’d changed so much since first year.

Then, he spoke, just gentle whispering in, what Hermione assumed to be Latin, and as he spoke she felt… soothed? Tired? Foggy?

Well, she felt… weightless, a floating figure, surrounded by two other heartbeats. It was difficult, as the words weaved across her mentality, to maintain a thought. Her discomfort melted away, retreating along with her sense of self and leaving behind little more than… blessed emptiness. Emptiness and… power. Something, something hot and frantic, something _other_ seemed to consume her. Elation came to her and her own magic, generally controlled and held down by a desperate need for absolute precision, came to life within her. She felt _one_ with the very force that made her special. Alive once more, as if she’d forgotten to breath, to _feel._ In the eye of her mind she could see it, her magic, nearly transparent but _there_ alongside the power that came from Neville, a vibrant joyous thing, and…

If she had the ability to feel fear just then she might have felt that. As it was, all she felt was temptation, a draw toward the tempest that was the other source of ability in her mindscape. _Harry_ , her mind whispered, tired and satisfied, swept aside by _power_ ; her own, Neville’s, and _his._ That darker toned storm called to her, and while some portion of her, some sleepy curled up portion, cautioned her, the part that was very very _woke_ held no need for it. Power was safe. Power was security. Power, power, _power--_

“Ah, amazing! Time to wake up, my knight.”

She tilted sideways, held upright from the floor only due to the strong grip of her friend. 

“Neville?” She opened her eyes, her vision blurry, her cheeks moist and he only smiled at her kindly with twinkling eyes and joy-flushed cheeks.

“Hermione,” Harry said, his smile, for once… something sincere and relaxed, “Thank you for sharing this with us.”

“No, Potter… Harry… thank you for including me.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Neville smiled viciously as he threw down the newest issue of the _Prophet._

With a smirk into her cup she took a slight--and not the least bit noisy--slurp of Pumpkin Juice before glancing at the newspaper. Ignoring the flashy pictures, she found the point of reference that Neville no doubt took pride in.

“Minister Fudge, A Rat, Corruption, and the House of Black?” Hermione looked up, “Is this what has you grinning from ear to ear?”

Neville took a seat across from her, half-leaned over the table and pointing ecstatically toward the column, “Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, was never a Death Eater! They sent him away without a trial, you know, least that’s what they are saying. Can you believe it?”

“Ministry was probably far too deep in Dumbledore's pocket to notice. A lot of pure-blood family members were sent away without a proper trial.”

Hermione jerked as Malfoy hovered behind her and twisted around quickly, instinct screaming for her to go for her wand.

“What?” Draco wrinkled his nose, but his usual… intense disdain was missing.

She took a deep breath to settle her heart, “Y-you… shouldn’t say such things about the Headmaster--”

“Oh? Why not? Because he’s a little Muggle lover and caters to your every need?”

Hermione sneered, a perfect copy of pure-blood offense, “Heir Malfoy, you know good and well that he’s done little to cater to _me_ specifically. If you are saying I think he shouldn’t be slandered because he attempts to cater to Muggle-borns overall--”

“And that is what I’m saying, of course. He’s forsaking _real_ wizarding needs for Mudbl--”

“And I don’t disagree that Hogwarts has changed since the time Olde Magick was openly practiced--”

“--I… what?”

“I’m saying, for your sake Malfoy, that it would be in your _best_ interest to not openly show disdain for a man who is, to be frank, sitting right in front of you… is all.” 

With that she stood, her arm ached, her need, the compulsion--she needed to check, just one more **time.**  

“A-ah, Granger?”

She froze, had he seen it? That wild look in her eyes? The feral ferocity in which she absolutely _must check her blood--_

“Hermione,” Harry’s voice floated over to her as he walked over from the Ravenclaw table, a guest wrapped around his arm, his smile _poisonous._ “Sit.”

Her legs felt weak and slowly she settled back on the bench. The constant mental _thump_ of her compulsion eased, passing with only a parting desire to lift her sleeve and check the damage she’d already caused--had been causing--since last year.

“Harry,” her voice was strained, breathy, “I was just going too--”

“No.” His statement was commanding, it left no question.

Then, with a boyish chuckle, he gave his companion--Lovegood--a graceful twirl and she tucked herself onto the bench beside Hermione.

Well, it was a little less tucking and more like snuggling as she became wrapped up in Luna’s arms and found her lap the new resting spot for Luna’s legs.

“Hey now,” Hermione croaked, frown firmly in place, “What is all--”

“Hermione is right, Draco. He’s right there, you know. Some Slytherin you are, where _is_ your cunning?”

Now his attention was upon Harry, “How was I supposed to know she would bloody--”

“I told you, she’s a good knight. You should give her a chance, a little guidance. You know, like Neville. He’s done a fantastic job.” 

Instead of scowling Draco only looked at her curiously. She might have noticed or, at least given it more thought if Luna wasn’t nuzzling her--

“G-g-get off, what are you--” 

“You have a soft neck, Hermione.”

“I don’t even… thank you? But really--”

“And you smell rather nice.”

“And that’s a lovely thing for you to say but--” 

“She really went? She participated Samhain?” Draco whispered, a line of words Hermione might not have caught since Luna was doing some sort of annoying buzz against one of her ears.

“And she gave it the seriousness and respect it deserves. This is different, Draco. If we want this to work--”

“She’s still a--”

“But she’s _ours_ , and I won’t be embarrassed.”

“Fine,” Draco muttered, but his body language was relaxed and his tone was more introspective than hate filled.

“Ours?” Harry grinned.

“Hmph, naturally. We’ll see who does a better job at it, this teaching thing--”

“LUNA!” Hermione squealed, finally freeing herself enough to stand on her own two feet and... And hold her chest.

“Oops!” Luna’s brows were high into her forehead but she didn’t seem the least bit sorry, “The pixies, you see, they wanted to know how bi--”

“ENOUGH!”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

She never did find out, exactly, what happened between Draco and Harry. Only that there was a little less sneering and an uncomfortable increase of interest. What would have been an unremarkable end of year became an intimidating… integration into a pure-blood circle.

“It’s disgusting. I can tell she’s curious but--”

“Forget it, Daphne, the weasel won’t let the little weaslette do anything.”

With a furrowed brow Daphne soon turned her attention to Hermione, her smile a bit too… dazzling, too precious. She held the sort of beauty only a princess could dream of obtaining. It was surreal and overwhelming--

“What do you think, Granger?”

Hermione felt somewhat startled by the ask. The first few evenings she’d found her table corrupted by… _Slytherins_ , they’d been rather quiet. Pansy kept sneaking her small… interested looks and, well, Daphne had never been very concerned for her well-being but she smiled every so often--so that was still very unnerving. There had been a lesser influx of slurs during study-time at least, but not everyone looked at her with curiosity. 

Most of the looks she got continued to be disinterest and, in Ronald’s case, immense distrust.

Well, at least she wouldn’t catch him in the library. 

“I think that… ultimately, decorum isn’t that important,” Hermione hurried to finish as Pansy’s blank expression began to twist into a scowl, “At least, not for their family.”

“Oh?” Daphne said, her tone carefully empty, “How so?”

“Well, how many… hmm… balls? They’re… balls, right?”

“Revels,” Pansy barked, but there was a lack of maliciousness in the statement.

“How many revels do you suppose the Weasley’s get invited to? How much power-- politically, though I’ve seen Ronald swing around a wand so… but really, how much power do you suppose they have to their name? What is the value they can provide and, is teaching decorum or attempting to, a proper investment?”

“Well... “ Daphne said slowly, her brow quirked and if Hermione had been naive she might have thought the girl impressed, “Her family was… _is_ a part of the Twenty-Eight. It seems only right that she should be prepared for marriage and--”

“It’s come to my attention that, well…” She glanced around the library for a moment, unsure, “But the lot of you… I… well, she’s a part of a blood-traitor family, isn’t she? Which, diminishes the value of a traditional marriage? At least, if one is to believe all powerful pure-blood families want little or anything to do with Muggles and the corruption they may or may not epitomize?”

Pansy leaned back for a moment, as if startled before she snorted, her grin a bit sly-- “And aren’t you also a blood-traitor? By default, at least?”

“By default,” Hermione answered casually, before she leaned back, quill balanced on her nose, “But while I don’t hate Muggles, my parents are Muggles, you see… I’m not blind to the damage they cause and the complications they represent.”

Her company was quiet and she continued to stare up at the ceiling before she drawled, “Slytherin has a rather horrid reputation, did you know that?” 

She could practically feel a budding hostility leak from her company. 

“You filthy little--” 

“I’m not finished. Do you deny that? That the other houses think the lot of you are murderers and prejudice, which, if we are being honest the lot of you very well are.”

Pansy made an odd sound in the back of her throat, a growl no doubt, but Daphne whispered, “I have no real issue with Muggle-borns. But…”

“We don’t take the time to learn, to respect, and to properly assimilate.”

“Yes…”

“I don’t blame you for that, but Hogwarts, well… they never said how important it was. They paint the bulk of you as the villains, the people with the horrible ideals and they twist your loss and pain into something petty.”

Silence, but only for a moment, as Hermione gathered her thoughts, “I think it’s rather foolish to do that. To you. To us. It makes us weak. Students should focus on learning not insignificant house squabbles and naive political notions. We come to this place, expecting to find more, to be someone, when we have no right to be anything--not at first.”

Slowly Hermione lowered her head and turned her gaze back to her audience, who watched with wide eyes and slight bewilderment 

“I… I know you understand what I’m getting at? We need to understand our origins to so that we are blessed with a purpose. The Muggles at my first school, horrible little trolls they were, cockroaches all of them, thought me a freak, then I came here and it was so much _worse._ ”

She cringed, but shook her head, “I came into a political minefield with no weapons of my own. If this school had just prepared me to be… respectful, to understand the history, to teach me the importance of this culture… do you think I would have shunned it or embraced it?”

They were speechless, perhaps for good reason.

“It took me some time to understand the… hatred. It’s a bit cruel, really, that the Headmaster seems blind to this small cultural slight. If we, Muggle-borns, understood the rich history and the obvious value of the Olde Families we could learn and **thrive and maybe--** ”

Learn to _create._ To make magic of their own. Real, _true,_ honorable magicks that enriched their shared culture and proved that they were eager to embrace and grow alongside their brethren. Maybe not as pure-bloods, but as the _first_ bloods of their own individual houses.

She snarled then, “But we’re being written off and trashed before given the chance. I can’t forgive him for that. Them for that. For that… pain, for making me feel like the outsider when I finally thought I had _something--”_

A hand reached out and clutched her fist, one so tight she hadn’t realized she’d been… hurting herself. The sharp scent of copper--familiar, so painfully familiar--filled her nostrils and she shuddered.

“I understand,” Daphne said, her voice a gentle purr, “It’s alright. You’re trying. You….”

“You give a shit,” Pansy coughed, ignoring Daphne’s glare.

“Yes… you ‘give a shit’.” Daphne shuddered and stuck out her tongue, as if the foul language had damaged her physically.

“Let me ask you this,” Hermione whispered, “Do you think Ginerva Weasley ‘gives a shit’? I believe her family is… what is it, politically and traditionally Light. They are the ones that have classified magic, all of it, as something to be shoved into black and white boxes, am I right? I’m still trying to understand what that means. Furthermore, what does it really mean to be Dark or is that just the title attached to those who don’t mindlessly agree?”

Daphne gave her injured hand a gentle cautious squeeze, “I’ll teach you the differences,” She smiled, as she reached into her robes in preparation to heal her.

But Pansy stuck out her hand in a fit of impulse--how very Gryffindor--only to smear fingertips across the slight trickle of blood forming on the table counter.

“It’s red.”

Hermione leaned forward slowly, her voice soft and nearly affectionate, unusual and thick with a cascade of emotion Hermione couldn’t properly comprehend.  

“Yes. Yes it is.”

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, “It’s not actually mud, Pansy. We aren’t that different.”

She laughed then, a soft titter that escalated until it was a manic and wild thing, some… harsh _cackle._

“ ** _They_** just want you to think we are.”

  **o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

 


	3. Year 4 I

Summer was pleasant, insanely so, in comparison to the others. While she still spent most of it within her home, with the other half spent lounging unashamedly on the northern coast of France, she had received a few gifts during her vacation, if it could be called that. Malfoy had explained to her that the gifts were to make up for his… transgressions. That he’d missed a few Yule’s and it was only proper to arm a new witch with all the appropriate reading she would need to succeed. Granted, the message wasn’t as nice as that. There’d been something about making sure she didn’t embarrass him if she went out in public with Potter and himself but, she was so baffled by the fact that he’d tried that she didn’t think much of it.

Potter and Neville had given her gifts as well, though theirs were a bit more practical than, say, quills and ink and parchment--though Malfoy’s gifts were still useful, even if thoughtless. Potter had given her some… interesting books on Olde Magick, the current state of the Ministry, and something called ‘Is The Dark Really Dark?’, which she knew had to be on a banned list somewhere, if the interesting passages were anything to go by.

Still, she couldn’t say she hadn’t learned quite a bit. Especially since Neville had managed to procure a more extensive Sacred Twenty-Eight list for her from his Gran.

He was such a good friend, her very first, her most precious.

So, when she opened the first compartment she thought was empty and saw him among the Slytherin’s she was certainly startled--

“‘Moine!” Neville cooed and he was the first and only one to stand up, take her hand, and drag her into the compartment.

“Granger,” Malfoy grunted, “Do hurry and take a seat before the trolley gets here. Blaise is supposed to be buying this year and I have a craving for chocolate.”

She took a look about the train once she had entered proper, a slow crawl that allowed her to notice a few familiar faces--Daphne and Pansy hovering over Witch Weekly in the corner, Draco with his legs kicked out in a less than prestigious slouch with Crabbe and Goyle, on one side while Neville sat on the other. And then there was Blaise.

  
He must have thought himself awfully attractive, if the way he sat was any indication. Stooped with a slight twist of lips and a look that could only be described as superior haughtiness.

“Well well, and this is the little Muggle-born pet of yours?”

“Pet,” Hermione whispered, her eyes crinkled with idle mirth as Neville sat up a bit straighter and leaned forward, his lips twisted in the sort of scowl Draco would have been proud of. Oddly enough she felt numb to the dig. Amused, for certain, but no longer easily swept on a tide of rage and loathing a stranger’s opinion would have brought her. She could have blamed that on foolishness and something as petty as _hope_ , but she liked to think it came from a newfound sense of security, of confidence, of a… budding understanding of her place in the grand scheme of their very closed off Hogwart’s society.

“She’s my bloody sponsored and if you so much a step a toe out of line--”

“Sponsored? Your sponsoring _her_?” Zabini looked like he’d tasted something sour, while he waved a hand dismissively toward Neville. “I can’t believe that--”

“It’s true,” Draco said, glancing idly over Crabbe’s shoulder as he attempted to read some sort of moving comic, “I figure I’d sponsor as well.”

“What?” **_That_** made Hermione pause. She understood what sponsoring was--as far as books could take her in said understanding--though it hadn’t been done for… well, sometime. It wasn’t every day that a family, pure-blood or otherwise, sought protection through vassalage and technically, Potter already owned her through a combination of two life debts--a great honor Neville kept saying, with his dreamy smile and near fanatical faith in Harry--but a family could still provide the appropriate guidance and needed tutelage that only a Sacred Twenty-Eight could give. Generally, as far as Hermione understood, the more families willing to risk embarrassment for your sake the better your political assumed prestige. Neville had leapt at the chance once Harry had spoken briefly of it over the summer, as his letters by owl had indicated. Hermione knew his Gran had been a bit unsettled about it but Neville’s need to reconnect with the traditions of his Father’s youth had been vicious and passionate.

All she had to do was go to Gringotts and make it official.

But it seemed like such a major thing, the sort of life altering change taking on an apprenticeship could bring and, in a way, wasn’t that exactly what she was agreeing to do?

“I… you never--”

“She’ll want to meet you, of course. Mother, that is--”

“Why?” Hermione blurted, gaze narrowed and suspicious, “You must forgive me if I don’t feel entirely secure with your intentions to guide me. It’s been rather clear to me that you can barely stand me. ”

“That’s changed.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Effort.”

She snapped her mouth closed with a loud slap, throat tight before she shook her head, “Effort?”

“You’ll meet her. They want to understand. Father is, understandably very very leery but Mother, well she’s brilliant and--”

“I… I can’t. Neville is one thing but--”

“Hermione! Relax,” Potter said, his voice a sudden jolly bellow as he slipped into the now cramped compartment space, his arms full of Luna Lovegood, who immediately bounced away from him to attach herself to Hermione.

Ignoring the discomfort of being _touched --_ she just didn’t understand the need for people to bother, no one had ever touched her before, she’d been filthy, wretched… -- she tightly addressed the newest entrant, “Harry.”

“Malfoy is my very good friend and he has an interest in my interests. This can only do wonders for your education.”

That was enough to cause the usual curl of hunger through her belly, “Education?”

“Imagine it. Summers spent in the middle of pure-blood society. You could learn a great deal about it, about _us_.”

“Us…?” She answered wistfully, pointing toward the bulk of the Slytherin’s and one hard faced Zabini.

“Us.” Harry corrected, pointing between the compartment, himself, and--

“Me?” She breathed, nearly overwhelmed by the admittance.

“Of course. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Harry said, displaying an innocent Hermione didn’t think he had.

And still… “Yes.” She answered, fiercely.

“I don’t believe that. You’d think she’d be rather interested in, ah, Lighter learnings.”

“You know nothing about her struggles, Zabini.” Neville hissed.

“She’s my determined lioness, Mr. Zabini. She’s interested in a great deal of magical aspects. Do be careful. Her roar is not as bad as her powerful bite.”

Somehow he knew, he knew she’d been practicing, using her Time-Turner throughout the last year to hone her abilities and power along with her social understanding.

She gave nothing away other than her harsh swallow.

“I don’t believe that,” Zabini repeated, “She’s a Muggle-born, for one, and a Gryffindor second. Bookworm she may be, but a threat? A person of actual interest? I think not. So why is it then, Potter, you think the Headmaster’s coddled house could produce anything of real value? Do share with the class.”

Though Zabini talked to Potter as if she weren’t there his gaze was on Draco, who frowned slightly and gave a shrug of indifference, as if the conversation were beneath his immediate interest and that did very little in making Zabini feel justified in his questions.

Harry, always set to play the perfect gentlemen, merely said, “My secrets are my own, you know and I just wouldn’t have time, or the patience, to tell you anyway.”

“And why is that?”

“You’re about to leave,” Luna answered dreamily as she twirled a finger through Hermione’s wild hair.

For a moment Zabini was tongue locked --“What was that? What did you say?” He leaned forward, a hand fingering his wand as he gave Luna a look that was half irritation, half underestimation.

“She said, you’re about to leave,” Harry chirped.

“I don’t take orders from a Ravenclaw, and I certainly don’t take them from you, Potter. Let’s not be foolish here, other than Neville, I can’t really think of anyone who can stand the muddy bird--”

Magic danced along her flesh, an angry humming thing that plucked at her skin one moment and soothed it the next. She held her breath and stood a bit straighter, trying to think past the growing buzz that crawled across her mentality dragging with it possessive hunger. She could practically _taste_ the headiness of it and her body fought between running and curling against the source --

In fact, the entire compartment fell silent. Zabini’s words were trapped in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed and his tongue flapped. Harry continued to smile ever so pleasantly. Luna clung to her just a bit tighter before glancing toward the Potter heir -- though they were all looking at him, to be fair.

“Oh Harry?” Luna sung in soft whisper and Harry gave an idle hand motion in a clear indication that she should wait just a moment.

“Mr. Zabini, if you will not take orders from a Ravenclaw then I must inspire you to take orders from myself. You do understand your place in this compartment, don’t you?”

Zabini swallowed thickly, beads of sweat gathered upon his brow. She wasn’t the only one that could feel the pulse of Harry’s magic, the teasing dangerous allure. Neville’s gaze was glassy with undisguised zeal. Draco, though pale, seemed to sway toward him, and Pansy and Daphne held onto each other, but were otherwise just as captured.

Only Luna appeared unaffected, but there dwelled a dangerous knowledge among her general lunacy. One that Hermione had no desire to inspect. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure what her own facial expression reflected--

Thirst? Longing?

  
How could something, some _one_ feel so _right_? How could authority manifest itself in their very aura?

Only Zabini seemed to be in pain.

That meant something, but Hermione could hardly focus on the thought right then.

“I’m a pure-blood, Potter. I know my place.” Zabini spat, and the heavy blanket of Harry’s power must have felt like a great burden as Zabini hunched over just a bit more.

Harry waved his hand in a motion of dismissal. “That’s hardly relevant these days. Pure-blood, Mudblood, half-blood. It’s all about power and those not afraid to use it, Mr. Zabini. I’m not afraid to tell you I have a great deal of it and that I am constantly compelled to use it.”

The way his voice tapered off, how it seemed like a soft coo of pleasure toward the end, was concerning, but Hermione only swayed in her spot, nodding dumbly to his words, his gospel.

“Your blood status is not a shield, Mr. Zabini. It’s a crutch. If you lack the drive to achieve more than that, well… you’re only as good as your blood will take you, and Mr. Zabini, it won’t take you very far.”

Harry gave a soft laugh before he reached out a hand, his gentle touch causing Hermione to jerk as he tugged lightly on her hair, “This is my knight, my vassal, and I am the last remaining Heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter.”

“That is a… sullied house,” Zabini ground out.

“Oh? Is it? Draco?”

“If it is, I would consider it more than redeemed, my Lord.” Draco whispered and Potter flashed him a dazzling smile while Hermione pondered Draco’s word choice.

“You flatter me, Draco. But, there’s something else I learned over the summer. You see, Mr. Zabini. My godfather has been cleared of his many many inappropriately assigned charges. He was able to regain his estate, his wealth and the prestige of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and as I’m sure you are aware, he gifted that lordship to me.”

Zabini seemed to curl in on himself, either stunned by the admittance or oppressed by the raw force that ebbed from Harry.

“And, as a pure-blood, that must at least deserve _some_ respect from you, right? And really, that’s all I’m asking for. A little respect.”

Neville stood abruptly, his chest heaving, his face red and flushed. His flexed just slightly, a test of his building muscle, before he effortlessly and quickly snatched Zabini from his seat. Like puppets Crabbe and Goyle also rose--set into motion by the flick of Draco’s wrist--and the three of them moved as one to, literally, toss Zabini from the compartment.

“And you _will_ show Lord Potter _respect_.” Neville spat, all before slamming the door.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

It was rather imperative that any witch, or wizard, who wished to keep up with the world beyond Hogwart’s walls seek and uphold a subscription to the Daily Prophet. Though Hermione had, once upon a time, found the newspaper a constant reminder of aspects of the world she either didn’t properly understand or would outright reject she now, with giddy fasciation, took to combing each section. The importance of consuming political and social material from the paper--while digesting and separating rubbish articles from the truth--had been expressed more than once by a dotting Neville and a hovering Potter.

So, she’d been eager and more than willing to, at first, scan the paper for portions of insight and recite them back to her Gryffindor associates each awkward socially acceptable, obligation tied breakfast. Any that would listen always did so with quirked brows and amused smiles, but she wasn’t regurgitating facts for them. No, she was doing so for Potter. For Neville. For the odd appearance of Malfoy or Lovegood and anyone else Harry brought over with his secretive smiles and falsely gentle airs.

That was what it meant to be shown off, she supposed.

But this morning she couldn’t form a coherent enough thought to string together the needed phrases that Harry, no doubt, patiently waited to hear. Every time she tried, she found herself swallowing bile. Her grip on the paper shook--just slightly, just enough for him to notice and flash her that painfully innocent look of concern--and her chest felt tight with the budding beginnings of a terror she hadn’t felt since The Troll Incident only but a few years ago.

She swallowed once, swallowed twice, then tried again.

“There was an attack during your… silly game.” Hermione began, trying to muster the usual indifferent fog she spent the bulk of her existence swaddled in. Yet, the uneasy twist of her belly remained and her back grew tense in warning. She slid the paper away from her person, as if one more scan of the words would render her blind. “Death Eaters, and the ilk, they claim.”

Neville nodded with a solemn understanding while Potter gave a tilt of his head, waiting…

“So, he’s back then?” She asked, blunt, despite the jerks of several hovering students settled on the benches nearby.

“He never went anywhere,” Harry answered casually, his flippant tone out of place in the backdrop of Hermione’s swelling horror.

She blinked rapidly, “Is that so?”

Her squeak was not an impressive feat of excellent Slytherin control, though she wasn’t a snake nor was she some pure-blooded bureaucrat. She was allowed the right to feel fear.

“The Quidditch Cup was just a sign, is all. A sort of warning to the fools who won’t open their eyes and all that.” Harry poked at a nearby sausage before plopping it off his fork and onto Hermione’s own plate, “Eat.”

She opened and closed her hands, “How can you? How can you just sit there and… smile?”

Her hissed whisper wasn’t the least bit intimidating to him and he replied easily enough, “It’s all rather easy, when you’ve nothing to fear.”

“You’ve a fat lot of things to fear,” Hermione said, fingers twitching toward the paper but she refrained from touching it again. There was nothing else she could learn from it, no matter how many times she read it. “How can you be so…”

“Calm?”

“--When you were at the Cup. When they came to--”

“--Oh, they weren’t after me, I suspect. I’m lucky, but I’m not that grand. You see, if they were after me, they would have certainly caught me.”

“Harry,” Hermione whined, an unbecoming sound to be sure, “This isn’t a game!”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Neville slowly leaned back to deliver a look to the nearest Gryffindor beside him. The boy, Lee Jordan, gave only a grumbled curse before he stood from his seat. His company, a girl Hermione knew only due to Harry’s association with the Quidditch team, rose to follow him with fingers casually threaded through her dark hair and expression no more perturbed than the usual displaced boy or girl might have given.

The others that had hovered near in the interest of casual conversation seemed to get an unspoken hint that Hermione was unaware of and, as if Harry were the center of an invisible storm, their space became deserted.

That was odd.

“Do you know them--”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted her question, “The World Cup was a spectacular chance to embrace a powerful bastion of wizarding culture.”

“So I’m been told,” Hermione wrinkled her nose, having no love of Quidditch, but the fact that she hadn’t been invited to attend the event with the boys forced some unpleasant emotion to roll through her chest. Neville had apologized profusely for the slight but she’d heard little from Harry and Draco in the means of reasoning for the exclusion. “A missed opportunity all around, I suppose.” 

“A shame, really. But! Do you know who else was there?”

He waited for her answer, and she licked dry lips, “Death Eaters.”

“Yes. Supposedly masterless Death Eaters.”

She clenched her hands into fists before she lowered her head, the crinkle of sun kissed tawny beige skin far more interesting to her suddenly.

“I find your fear unusual, Hermione.”

Her head snapped up so that she could direct her narrowed gaze to something other than the intricate carvings of polished wood, “Unusual? How can you even propose that? You, The-Boy-Who-Lived-But-Maybe-Shouldn’t? They’re hunting you, you do realize that, don’t you?”

Her expression, she knew, was one of undisguised distress, but Harry remained perfectly blank. She envied his ability to do that.

“I’ve read about it, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and I _know_ enough about the circumstances surrounding the death of your parents, Harry. I know enough to be immensely concerned for your safety and my _own._ We aren’t the sort the Death Eaters are ecstatic to embrace, Harry. Or, at the very least, I’m not.”

Because Hermione wasn’t blind, she knew, on some level, that Harry was _different_ than what anyone could have imagined. She knew that Dumbledore paid him an unnerving amount of attention during their Great Hall gatherings. She saw his narrowed eyes and the slight furrow of his brow that screamed ‘concern’. She knew that some folk believed he was some prophetic Chosen One, claimed to be such by, what Hermione thought to be, a complete ninny. But she didn’t believe it, not entirely. Harry was not going out of his way to play the overachieving hero. No more than she believed Ronald could be less of a glaring, grumbling, and lazy pure-blood. Once upon a time, she could have seen him as something else, something soft and humble, vulnerable--

But those were not the words she’d ever attest to Harry now.

No, there was something wicked in that boy that went beyond schoolyard mischief. His intelligence seemed otherworldly, sharpened by a startling amount of wisdom and experience he shouldn’t have possessed. It was maddening, the ease at which he navigated their shared world and completed complex assignments with little help from herself. She thought she heard, swore by it really, that he’d been Muggle raised but that couldn’t have _possibly_ been the case.

Unless, he’d learned, much earlier than she, the power of understanding the wizarding space.

“How much attention have you paid to the world in the last three years, Hermione?”

Hermione blinked, slowed by the sudden change of subject, “Shamefully, very little.”

“I understand, you didn’t really have the motivation and consideration you do now, after all.” Harry said, before he playfully tugged the edge of the newspaper further away from her person, “Did you know that during first year our illustrious Headmaster brought a very strong item of importance onto school grounds… and lost it?”

No, she shook her head, she knew something important had been here, but not that it had been lost.

“Professor Quirrell also disappeared during that time. A curious happenstance, Hermione.”

She glanced at Neville from the corner of her eye but he was silent, his attention mostly on the emptying room they occupied.

“Are you saying,” Hermione drawled, “That Professor Quirrell, and the loss of this item, are related? Were we taught by the same professor?”

Harry gave a closed lipped laugh, “Please Hermione, our glorious Headmaster is benevolent but Hogwarts is not a space for the incompetent.”

She exhaled a slow breath, “You’re saying Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t have allowed his admittance unless it was for a purpose?”

“I think that purpose was a test, one I unfortunately failed.” Harry’s pout looked incredibly out of place on his face.

“Why would anyone, including the Headmaster, try to test you? What was the test?”

“Well, the object he tried to protect, do you know what it was?”

She clicked her tongue against the back of perfect--and now, properly shaped--teeth. “Philosopher's Stone.”

Harry parted his lips and made a soft sound of surprise before he smiled, “That’s right…”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I didn’t figure out what it was until the latter half of second year. I just happened to be well-read, all books and cleverness you know--”

“And pragmatism.”

“Yes and… mmm.” She cut him a glare before she continued, “The Prophet was in a tizzy about it for some time and they hinted the object was rather important. I linked it to a curious conversation I once heard Professor Hagrid mumbling about. Something about a Mr. Flamel. The rest was research and…”

The way Harry looked at her made her flushed, “It’s not that hard. I just didn’t care much about it. I had other things on my mind.”

Like fitting in. Surviving. Living. Understanding why it was so _hard_ to do any of the three.

“Then you know what it does?” Harry continued.

Hermione huffed softly, “I know what it claims to be able to do.”

Harry quirked a brow.

“That is to say,” Hermione coughed, “Magic works in often mysterious illogical ways and so I understand it could do some amazing unrealistic feat but have yet to witness said feat.”

With a huff, Harry shrugged, “I’ve got cause to believe that Professor Quirrell took the stone, in order to witness the illogical unrealistic magical feat. He wasn’t at all what he claimed to be, and Dumbledore--”

“Professor Dumbledore, Harry.”

He gave a sardonic grin, “ _Dumbledore_ , made a grievous mistake.”

Hermione’s lips pressed thin for but a moment but she dropped the idle lack of respect toward a man she didn’t exactly praise, “I see. And he lost the stone?”

“He lost the stone.”

“Alright,” Hermione said slowly.

“I think I was meant to find it. A test of my great prowess as the Chosen One.”

“But you didn’t find it?”

“I did not.”

She didn’t question why; she knew he wouldn’t give her a straight answer and she wasn’t in the mood for riddles.

“So,” Harry said, “the next year something else happened.”

Hermione nodded solemnly, “The Heir of Slytherin Incident.”

“You put so much emphasis on those words I think every one might have started with a capital letter.”

Hermione only listlessly shrugged, “It was a horrid year. Absolutely dreadful.”

“For good reason,” Harry agreed, “The Chamber was opened--”

“--The what now?”

“--The Chamber. Of Secrets?”

She gave him an empty stare, “I would not have been aware such a thing existed here, though how unsurprising that it does. I suspect this Chamber was also holding the beast that ran about trying to murder Muggle-borns?”

“Absolutely.”

“And it was opened by the Heir of Slytherin.”

“Nope,” Harry said, popping the ‘p’ on his statement, “It was opened by a slip of a girl. Ginevra Weasley. It’s all nasty business. Whole thing was covered up by Dumbledore.”

She slowly leaned back in her seat, giving him her best unblinking stare. “Stop.”

“The Chamber is sealed by a special type of magic. All hissing and such--”

“Parseltongue, extremely rare. Said to be an innate ability, known to be passed down through the bloodlines.”

“Very good,” Harry said, “Exactly right.”

The bulk of this was all information she’d learned over the summer, through the assistance of Neville’s letters, his Gran’s Grand Master Tree, and various other historical books--one of which Harry had given her himself.

“You see, the girl claims something told her to do it, a book.”

Neville mumbled something under his breath about that.

“It compelled her to open the Chamber and the book gave her, very briefly, the ability to speak the needed language to do so. Thus--”

“The basilisk was released.” Hermione interrupted, “Doing exactly what it’s masters asked it to do…”

But she couldn’t understand why she was getting a lesson in history, or rather, Harry’s perceived history.

“Some of our classmates blamed me for that, did you know? It was either Draco or myself.”

“Why was that?” Hermione quirked a brow.

“Dueling Club. I have that little ability, you see.”

Hermione flared her nostrils and schooled her expression. Oddly enough, the odd rumble of terror that swirled the contents of her stomach was swift but non-lingering. She wasn’t afraid of Harry, at least, not that aspect of him. Instead, she was focused on the slow and sudden clicking of her mind, as if puzzle pieces were trying to slam themselves into spaces they didn’t fit just yet.

“I did not attend.”

“I performed a bit, there. Mostly for Ronald’s benefit. He thought himself a better duelist, raised by blood-traitors and all that.”

“Of course,” Hermione wished she had a cup of tea or a quill to fiddle with, anything to ease the building tension in her belly.

“The summary is that he managed to summon a snake, very Slytherin of him, to attack me. I politely told said snake to, well, do something else. You can imagine how he took it. How _they_ took it.”

For a moment Harry gave Neville a slight glance, but the other boy was pointedly occupied with watching stragglers leave the Great Hall.

“While you spent the bulk of your time in the library, I had to put a few of those who doubted my authenticity in their _place._ ”

She shivered, needing little explanation there.

“At the time I doubt anyone realized the magic tongue was needed to open the Chamber, only that I had an ability the Heir of Slytherin would.”

“And are you… the Heir of Slytherin?”

“I really doubt it.” But his smile was the only end to that answer.

She licked her lips, “How is it then, that Ginerva is…?”

“Oh yes well, she managed to open the Chamber via possessed book, so I hear, but someone heard her--Professor Snape. Managed the snatch the little one right up.”

“And the snake?”

“Oh!” Harry rubbed his chin, “They never found it.”

She gagged slightly and hunched over, wondering if her breakfast would end up on the table instead of in her body.

“You mean, they didn’t kill it?” She whispered, “I’m going to die here.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, I’m not going to let you die.” Harry snorted. “After Professor Snape took care of poor Ms. Weasley I thought a bit of exploration was in order. I found an… interesting sword--no need to wonder how--and stabbed at it while it slept but, well. There’s no rumors of a corpse being removed from that place. I just suspect the Chamber dweller isn’t here anymore.”

The only thing she could do was stare at him in exasperation, “Oh yes, and you know that how?”

“Dumbledore has been trying to track it since second year.” He gave a bob of his head, “The snake isn’t here, you can trust that. “

Left unspoken was the fact that if it was alive and it hadn’t attacked since then, it probably wouldn’t.

“And the book?”

“Missing,” Harry said.

That didn’t seem good.

“During our third year my Godfather escaped Azkaban.”

“Lord Black, yes.” Hermione confirmed.

Harry gave a slight wiggle of his fingertips, “He’s a rather nice man, if a bit crazed. That’s what happens in Azkaban though.”

“I am aware,” She thought the magical prison a horrendous oversight to human rights, but that was more Muggle thought than anything else and she wasn’t going to be the first to admit it, “I thought it was horrible, even then, that someone could be shipped off without a trail.”

“I researched it. They have the court records at the Ministry and Lord Malfoy, Lucius that is, is very fond of me.”

That was… surprising.

“Did you know that the Headmaster, at the time, had the power to prove Sirius innocence? He didn’t, of course, but people knew. Lord Malfoy said that Sirius was constantly around my Father. It was incredibly suspicious and unlikely that he would have been in leagues with Voldemort.”

This time Hermione jerked, “Warn a woman before you find cause to blurt out his name like that!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He didn’t look the least bit sorry, “But you realize that if Lord Malfoy--”

“Who claimed to be under Imperius during You-Know-Who’s rise to power--”

“Ah, testy, but yes even under Imperius it’s not like we… tend to forget what we do. Lord Malfoy has let slip his doubts about my Godfather often, purposely most likely, and others are inclined to believe he has a point--”

“--His point?”

“That Dumbledore, who treated Father and Sirius with the utmost bias, should have known he was incapable of Light treason.”

Slowly Neville stood, “Harry. Hermione.”

From the corner of her eye she spotted the billowing robes of two newly entered professors. One Professor Mcgonagall, and one Professor Dumbledore.

  
She quickly stood, set to gather her bags as she moved to keep up with the boys, but she had one last thing on her mind-- “You’re trying to tell me something. Something about the Headmaster and a possible link to the Death Eaters?”

Harry smiled slightly, his eyes narrowed with mirth. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m a hero and I’m not concerned about the Death Eaters.”

Slowly Harry turned from her to look toward Dumbledore, who smiled tightly and waved a pale hand in their direction.

Ah, yes. She knows what he’s concerned about.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“Why do they treat them like that?” Hermione whispered, a caustic utterance under her breath as she tried to understand yet another cultural difference, “The house-elves?”

Daphne gave a soft sigh, “It’s how it’s always been.” She gave the girl a nudge and moved her forward, their book--Wizarding Priorities Through the Ages--spread open in both hands, “They take care of us and we take care of them. From the outside, and I believe this is your Muggle perspective blinding you, they appear as slaves--”

“They are slaves,” Hermione answered, bluntly.

Daphne wrinkled her nose, “They take great pride in servitude. The bond between a house-elf and their master is… I can’t explain it. Imagine being with someone that anticipates your every need and thrives--no--lives on praise and magic to maintain their sanity. They have their own culture, Hermione. It wasn’t something we forced upon them. If I thought any of the Hogwart’s elves would take the time to leave their duties, I would have one explain its history to you. Just finish the passage on your own and… have an open mind.”

Hermione repressed a scowl but reached over to take the book from Daphne’s hands. She would not reject a gift--and this was a very precious gift--nor a lesson in wizarding thought, but immediate agreement was difficult to muster up. The Greengrass heir had no doubt grown up being coddled by elves and immersed in customs Hermione couldn’t properly fathom. It was then, no wonder, that she had a near instinctual understanding of ‘how things are’.

Hermione couldn’t break the habit nor need to know ‘why those things are’.

“And don’t talk to any elves about freedom. They’d run screaming from you and never come back.” Daphne smiled slyly.

Hermione sighed, “I wasn’t going to do that.”

Then again…

A commotion then, loud yelling and unfortunate screaming that did very little to soothe the stress that rolled in her tense shoulders. She didn’t need to look at Daphne to know her impromptu tutor was moving quickly--but gracefully, Slytherin’s do not run--toward a nearby gaggle of students. Hermione, in her haste to follow, practically ran into her which nearly sent them sprawling forward in a disgraceful heap.

Fortunately, Hermione merely bumped into the other woman, who had enough strength in her stiff spine to keep them both upright.

“A bit cruel, that--”

“--oh yes, very very cruel.”

“Not even I would--”

“--Who are you kidding, brother? You most certainly would!”

There’s a screech in front of her, but Hermione could barely see. If it weren’t for the two tall red-haired boys…

“Excuse me, my companion and I--”

“--Ah! Look at this one! A bushy lioness!”

“A bit short, isn’t she?”

Hermione did nothing to repress the twist of her upper lip as it lifted to reveal her teeth in a harsh snarl.

  
“Whoa! Just a bit of a joke!” Said one twin.

“Yes yes, well? Don’t just stand there. You’re clearly blocking the way--”

“--I’m blocking the way? Good job tossing the blame, Fred.”

She gave a slow exhale with a groan before, quite rudely, if Daphne’s soft gasp was any proof, squeezing between the lanky bodies of the twins.

“Oop!” They both huffed, knocked about--only a little---as Hermione forced them to make room for Daphne as well.

Once clear of long legs and arms it was much easier for Hermione to see…

Well she wasn’t quite certain. There was a Professor, Moody, utilizing his wand to shake a screaming white ferret up and down through the empty space before him. Around the circle there was laughter, but some of the students---those with green ties---looked nauseous and uncomfortable at the display. In fact, it was really only Ronald and his procured ‘gang’ of Gryffindors that seemed to be laughing riotously. Those few others that happened to be there, a Hufflepuff or two, a handful of Ravenclaws, just tittered nervous if not a bit uncomfortably.

“What is…?” Daphne murmured, but Hermione had her gaze upon the pale faces of Crabbe and Goyle, the latter who looked near ready to burst into terrified tears. This was only made worse when the professor took the ferret and began to, unceremoniously, attempt to stuff him into Goyle’s pants.

Goyle’s wail and scream of fright was enough to tug at something in Hermione, some harsh clawing sensation that made her hair stand on end and her lungs constrict. She barely noticed Harry among the crowd, his position somewhat behind Ron, his expression carefully schooled as he watched her.

Let him watch.

She broke from the crowd, a figure with eyes a tad too wide and breath that hissed past her downturned lips. Her expression reflected her immense disapproval, no doubt, and she made sure that each step she took displayed her caustic loathing for the debacle no one tried to stop. Her wand slipped easily into her grip, it’s crafted holster against her wrist eager to deposit the warmth of the wood. Her magic stirred, unbidden, as she pointed the wand in the general direction of Goyle and snarled--

_“Accio, ferret.”_

She commanded and the magic obeyed, twisted to her whims and eager to enact her intent. Whether or not she had expected the spell to latch onto the struggling screaming creature was irrelevant. Her mind thumped and pounded with one purpose--to _take_ , to end--and the immediate reaction was one wriggling ferret slung into her tight grasp. She squeezed, never minding the sharp sting of claws as the panicked animal tore at her fingers nor the razor teeth that snapped and bit at her flesh. The pain was shallow at best, nothing compared to her… research, her _checks_ , and she welcomed it with flushed cheeks and each pump of her Muggle-born heart.

Let her bleed red for all of them to see, the filthy lot.

Only Ronald seemed to be laughing then, his grin wide and victorious while the professor--if he could be called such--turned toward her with wrinkled face and flapping cheeks--

“You, you shouldn’t be able to cast tha--”

She tightened her grip on the ferret, until it did nothing more than pant and squeal. Her gaze remained focused on Ronald as Goyle fell back onto his bottom and sniffled in a manner more pathetic than not. But, she didn’t blame him. If she had been subjected to having an animal shoved down her _pants_ of all things, she would have been equally mortified.

Through the struggling crowd Neville approached, his chest heaving from the exertion it took to run and part the crowd. “Crabbe!”

Goyle’s pale faced friend looked toward her own with trembling lips. “Y-yes?”

“Where is…?” Neville paused in his speech as Ron finally silenced his cackling, but the question was clear.

Where was Draco Malfoy?

Hermione felt anger twist with dread at the pit of her stomach. She had a bloody good idea where he was.

“Girl,” Professor Moody barked, “Put down the boy.”

“The boy?” She said, her voice seemed different--far away, detached as her body filled with something else, some great _thing_ made of savagery and indignation. “This ferret is..?”

“A student?!” A shout of exclamation was heard over the crowd and Hermione barely registered the bouncing hat-sporting head of Professor Mcgonagall, “You hexed a student?!”

The two professors squared off, Moody giving some piss poor excuse while Hermione placed the trembling ferret against her chest trying to settle her own heart. Though Draco was, by no means, Hermione’s favorite person there was some portion of her that felt…

Absolutely **_furious._**

By the idea he’d been compromised, humiliated, and laughed at. Brought to bow by a _professor_ , a teacher that was meant to protect them and guide them. Her gaze shifted back to Ronald, who seemed rather smug while their ‘adult’ supervision was distracted.

“Well? Gonna do as he says, Granger?”

Though Ronald had shown her no love and often his jealous uncouth outbursts were tolerable she felt, like never before, a building urge to… to…

_Hurt him._

She took a shuddering breath and ignored the creeping niggling thought, “What did he do?”

“Malfoy?” Ron sneered, “He got what he deserved, the git. Tried to show me up about some babble in the Prophet--”

“The article about your father? This is about some rubbish written about your father?”

He seemed a bit thrown off by her statement, “Y-you read it? Is that it?”  
  


“Of course, I read it,” She said, fire and brimstone as she tilted her head up in a subconscious motion Daphne would have been proud of--if not for her own shock and disgust at the scene. “But anyone with a lick of sense wouldn’t have thought much of it. He teased you over obvious slander and _this_ happened?”

She was seething, and Neville was quick to come to her side, but she couldn’t stop, couldn’t **think--**

“And where was your precious professor, your crowd of gaping school children, your righteous anger, when Heir Malfoy attacked my blood? Again and again?”

Neville paused, his hand outstretched before he rested it against Hermione’s shoulder.

“‘Moine--”

“But if your pure-blood Gryffindor squawks the very gates of hell find cause to open?”

She wanted to spit, to scream, to stomp, but instead she merely held the ferret _just_ a bit tighter, unaware--or maybe just uncaring--of Draco’s discomfort.

“What a _boy_ you must be, Ronald Weasley. The last son of your former house of glory, fighting your duels with the crazed as your sword.”

The audience was silent but the Slytherin’s held differing looks of attentiveness and amusement, most of it directed toward a red-faced Ronald.

“You--”

“Hermione.”

His voice made her swallowed, her words strangled and pushed aside for immediate obedience. She looked at Harry as he motioned, with idle hand, for the finished and thankfully out of earshot professors to approach.

“You’ll give Malfoy some undeserved bruises if you squeeze any harder. Put him down. **Now** , my friend, so that Professor Mcgonagall can tend to him.”

“Harry,” She replied, her anger slowly uncurling to leave her feeling awkward and spent. With a shake of her head she leaned down to place the shaking ferret on the ground and once McGonagall was upon them she made him proper.

She supposed it wasn’t a moment she’d soon forget. The harsh gleam of Ronald’s gaze, the girlish giggles of the Weasley twins, Daphne’s look of intense fascination, and even a Hufflepuff or two’s look of idle curiosity--was it Hannah she saw? Susan too?

She couldn’t be sure. All that she knew was that such intense emotion held no real place within her and that she’d drawn the attention of Professor Moody--who raised a brow in her direction as she tossed him a snort once Draco, shaking and muttering, was helped to his feet by Crabbe and Goyle.

Both were troubling prospects.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“You’ve got a tight grip, Granger.”

Hermione glanced over her shoulder, attention stolen by a familiar drawl with suave amusement, “I apologize, Heir Malfoy. I wasn’t aware that the animal was--”

Draco gave a wave of his hand, his face a carefully controlled mask of indifference, though his gaze rolled with the beginning tremble of something _livid._ “Apology accepted.”

That anger, so potent in its savagery, made the skin on the back of her neck crawl. She wondered, idly, if that was a look she’d ever be able to replicate. She was only grateful that, for the most part, the anger wasn’t at her.

She lifted a hand, through it hovered, uncertainly. She wanted to… what, comfort him? Assure him she understood? That within her chest there was also a rolling tightness at the insidious injustice? Certainly, Draco--with his arrogant airs and superior complex--might have deserved some sort of hexing, but not from someone meant to protect and guide.

That wasn’t as easy to forgive, in comparison to whatever inadequate strike Ronald may have originally been able to conjure.

“Did he--”

“No,” Draco snorted, his gaze settled, empty, numb, “But I didn’t expect that anything would happen. To him. Not someone with the Dumbledore Stamp-of-Approval.”

“Your father then--”

“Is not in a position to do much.”

And left unspoken--not yet, _not now._

She gave an idle nod of acceptance before she turned her gaze back to the front of the classroom, one barely full as students trickled in with a wariness she’d never seen before. More specifically, a great deal of Slytherin’s seemed to border on irritated and terrified.

Why was that?

“Draco?”

The boy in question had lazily drawn his attention to the door, perhaps in anticipation of Goyle or Crabbe.

“Yes, Granger?”

“Is there a reason Tracy Davis looks like she’s about to puke?”

Draco was silent, perhaps expecting some sort of elaboration as he looked at her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s just that,” Hermione continued, “Some of your housemates are--”

“Terrified, yes.” Draco answered calmly enough, but there was something in his expression that put Hermione on edge. He looked incredibly smug, as if he were the holder of some grand secret or knowledge he just knew she’d wriggle for. Yet, even that seemed dampened by something else, something more solemn like resignation. “You see Granger--”

“This isn’t because of Professor Moody, is it?” Hermione interrupted.

  
Draco tsked, “Patience. And yes, it’s exactly because of Professor Moody. That man--they called him Mad-Eye, by the way, due to what I believe is an utter lack of control and sanity--put a lot of people's relatives in the grave during the First Wizarding War.”

He quirked a brow then, “You do know what the First Wizarding War is, correct?”

She scowled, “Yes yes, get on with it.”

His lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile ultimately repressed, “The Ministry did a rather horrid job of retaining Death Eaters, to get information or otherwise. Sure, a great deal of them now line the cells of Azkaban with their corpses but that man… Well, there was no such thing as innocent until proven guilty. I heard, from Father of course, that he’d send his rabid Aurors to raid entire homes of good and proper witches and wizards, slaughtering them without so much as an ask for tea, let alone trying to see if any of them were Death Eaters or not.”

She hoped her expression didn’t reflect the horror she felt, nor the confusion she encountered as her feelings mixed and gurgled among her bafflement. “But, were they guilty? Of... being Death Eaters, that is?”

“Does it matter?” Draco said.

No, she supposed not. At least, not for Draco.

“Tracy Davis lost an uncle due to Moody. Nobody really knows why; it wasn’t like he was a Death Eater. Maybe, once upon a time, he might have been _interested_ , in hearing a point of view that didn’t leave us weak and cultureless. I rather doubt she remembers much of him, but who do you suppose is the boogeyman for her family these days? Especially, with this bloke running about? He’s the type to shoot first and ask questions later. A terror, for a lot of children, who had nothing to do with any sort of Wizarding Wars.”

Draco sneered then, teeth slick from his trademark grimace, “It’s all politics, always politics. Get rid of ‘em before they turn _dark_. Get rid of ‘em, they’re just Slytherins.”

Then, with a shake of his head he turned and stalked away, hand raised in a greeting toward his usual companions.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Neville rocked and muttered, he snarled and trembled, but for the most part he just looked miserable. Hermione sat with him, one hand upon his arm, the other holding his tight trembling fist, while he sneered and spat and shook.

She was silent, a comforting presence, someone to listen to his incoherent babble while ‘mhm’ing in the right places. She didn’t mind it, really. She wanted to be there for him, to absorb his pain and share his burden. He was precious to her, beyond words or comprehension. He was more than her friend, he was her _family_ , when she’d had none. It was different than her parents, who were supportive but ultimately _mundane._ He was her anchor in this realm, the sacred brother to a single lonely child.

“He didn’t know,” Hermione croaked, trying to soothe him, but her voice didn’t sound sincere enough--it _wasn’t sincere enough._

Not because she didn’t care, but because her belly rolled with uncertainty and anger. Someone had _hurt_ Neville emotionally. As unintentional as Moody must have been Hermione wasn’t his biggest fan and the manic irrational desire to… to… blame Moody for Neville’s trauma was very strong. The fact that the man had tried to whisk Neville away afterwards hadn’t helped. Neville had barely been able to speak for himself, so she’d made an excuse for them both to leave his presence.

“It’s rotten luck, is what it is. To be exposed to that. To see it. I wanted to _cry_.” Neville sniveled, but his body was tense and his eyes were dry, “I hate remembering, is all. I hate to see it. I’ll never forget it. No one will let me forget it--”

She didn’t interrupt his mutterings, wouldn’t dare to.

“I hate it, that curse, it ruined them. My parents, my family. They thought I could be _him_ , but I’m not my Father--”

“Yes…” Hermione whispered, her heart aching.

“They did it, the Death Eaters, such a proud lot, they tortured them--the _Cruciatus--_ until they were a mess, until whatever made them _them_ died.”

Hermione held her breath, her motherly need to comfort at conflict with her terror.

“Gran was devastated, confused. I go see them sometimes, but they don’t remember, I don’t think. Some part of them is there but, but--”

Suddenly, as if some great string holding him upright snapped, he folded onto himself, face in hands and shoulders shaking--“I hate seeing that, why did he have to show us that? Why was it so _fucking_ important?”

Forgoing all pretenses--and the urge to correct Neville’s language--Hermione reached over and gathered him into her arms. She let him dry heave and sob without tears, she let him ease his emotional burden, and wondered for just a moment, the damage that war could wrought on two sides of a fence controlled by imposing manipulative figures.

The Death Eaters, The Dark Lord, The Ministry, The Aurors.

And somehow, she knew, Dumbledore stood somewhere in the middle.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“‘Moine.” Neville’s smile was strained but kind, his gaze much brighter than it had been in the last few days or so. It eased some tightness in her chest as she slid next to him at the Gryffindor table.

“Neville.”

“I spoke with Harry,” Neville took a shaky breath, “He is… we’re discussing something.”

Hermione gently bit her bottom lip, “Does it have anything to do with…?”

“Yes,” Neville blurted out, “Yes that and… and controlling my responses and understanding a... unbiased outlook on the war and the crimes that took place during it.”

She wasn’t sure what all of that meant, but she knew Neville seemed less crushed and more hopeful, “Do you understand any of it? Potter likes to talk in riddles.”

“Not all of it, but I’m making an effort--Really, Hermione, call him Harry, he’s our _friend_.”

“He’s our…” _Master.._

_“Friend,”_ Neville chirped happily.

“Our friend… yes,” Hermione repeated, uncertain.

“I hated class today,” Neville grumped, changing the subject.

“Yes, it was all nasty.” Hermione sneered. Though she held a tight leash over her rolling frustration she thought it entirely inappropriate to practice Unforgivables on children. She didn’t care much for the reasoning either, no matter what Professor Moody had thought proper.

And it gave her a startling realization that, she had no desire to… succumb, to the sort of mind-numbing… emptiness such a curse could inflict. To show her something so… heavenly and then take it away--heavenly? Really? That was a frightening synonym to apply to being controlled. She’d have to look into that.

It was just that, not having to think, for just a moment. Not being consumed with her worries, with her doubts, with her suspicions.

Well, who wouldn’t find just _listening_ pleasant?

Bloody embarrassing, but certainly pleasant.

“Well, no matter. Harry is calling us over. Let’s go, shall we?”

“To greet the other schools?” Hermione had little interest in that, in any of the tournament business, actually. Her initial idea was to escape to the library during the commotion--wait, was this event mandatory or--

“This way!” Neville half lifted half dragged Hermione off the bench and toward the line of anxious and excited students. The tumbling energy that filled the hall was distracting but at least tolerable. It was good to see that some of them weren’t as burden by recent events as Hermione was.

Not that that was fair or anything.

“Hello Hermione,” Luna whispered, a sudden voice in her ear.

“Ffffff--” Hermione jerked, stumbling the rest of the way and nearly knocking a nearby Pansy off her feet.

The girl gave her a wicked sneer but, at the very least, pushed a hand out to settle her. It wasn’t gentle, and the look in her eyes wasn’t all that friendly, but at least she hadn’t let her tumble to the ground.

“You and the looney outta watch it,” Pansy hissed, right before she gave her a rather firm push toward Harry, whose bemused expression didn’t ease the red flush across Hermione’s cheeks.

“Rude wench,” Hermione hissed at Pansy as she was practically manhandled.

“You little filthy thing,” Pansy purred, a tad too playful for Hermione’s comfort.

She’d have to watch her back for any ‘friendship hexes’.

“She’s taken quite the liking to you!” Luna said, making sure to hide somewhat behind Harry’s grinning body.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, “She looked at me like she wanted to peel off my skin and mount it on her wall, probably next to something unsightly.”

Harry’s grin only grew broader while Neville looked slightly uncomfortable at the graphic imagery. Luna only clapped lightly--

“Oh yes, she certainly likes you.”

Their conversation came to a halt at that, interrupted by a nervous energy that caused the crowd around them to flex and shift. Harry motioned, a bit impatiently, for her to come and stand at his side and somehow she found Neville on the other. At their back she could hear Draco and his company, lightly talking about this and that--irrelevancies, as far as Hermione could tell--while further down the line Ronald and his group, currently consisting of Oliver Wood, and Dean Thomas, looked a peculiar uncomfortable green.

Though Hermione wouldn’t have called herself impressed she was immensely inspired by the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the former’s Headmistress an impressive sight while the latter--

“Igor Kakaroff,” Harry whispered, “Former Death Eater, gave up a lot of his mates for freedom and I suppose a nice position at Durmstrang.”

Hermione kept her face carefully impassive, a match to Harry’s own, while she watched the movement of the foreign Headmaster with his strict march of students.

“It’s HIM!” Ronald practically screeched, his high-pitched tone a match for some of the girls that screamed with excitement around them, “Viktor Krum! Viktor Krum is here!”

Neville gave a low groan and pinched his brow, “Embarrassing.”

Hermione exhaled slowly, thoughts of Death Eaters pushed aside for now.

“Quite.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“The Powerful Mythical Goblet of Fire,” Harry said, his tone a press of casualness that seemed to ease the tight knot between Hermione’s shoulders and replace it with a new type of unease.

“Yes,” Hermione said, glancing up from a pile of messily written parchment, half-open cultural books, and Ministry parliament regulations. “What of it?”

Harry didn’t hesitate to plop down beside her, the solitude afforded by an empty Gryffindor Common Room perhaps too tempting for even the Boy-Who-Lived to resist. Idly, and without asking, to Hermione’s chagrin, he reached over and plucked one of her parchments from the table.

“What is this?”

“Notes,” Hermione said, before she blinked and reached out a hand to adjust an ink pot, “Ministry parliament, boring stuff.”

“Try me,” Harry said, his gaze a reflection of interest sans the normal amusement he took in speaking to her about things she didn’t understand just yet.

“Well,” Hermione started, “Did you know the Wizengamot is actually divided by two major sections?”

“Is that true? Those who have seats and those who have more seats, right?” Harry asked innocently.

She wouldn’t fall for his ploy, “Those who have more seats, a House of Lords, and those who don’t have as many, a House of Commons.”

“Is that an official declaration? A House of Lords and a House of Commons?”

“Nope,” Hermione admitted, “It used to be, sometime ago, I’d say back before Professor Dumbledore was an active figure. Daphne says that a lot of traditional Wizengamot ideals have been shed to create an illusion of equality.”

“An illusion?”

Hermione snorted, “The Sacred-Twenty-Eight verses those who just aren’t. You can’t eliminate the division there. The distribution of wealth is too great. Prestige and the High Elite go hand-in-hand, not everyone gets invited to the social circle revels. If you’re just a Johnson verses a… well, a Potter, then you definitely know you’re a Johnson.”

Hermione gave the parchment in Harry’s hand a tap, “The Light Party, pro-Muggle, pro-Muggle-Born, pro-Magic Classification, and supposed heralds of equality want to… I suspect, eliminate that circle.”

“Oh?” Harry leaned back but not before he replaced his current parchment in exchange for another.

“It’s what I assume. I’ve been reading a lot of... Propaganda.”

Slipped suspiciously into her bag from... Well, she wasn’t sure who was doing it.

To that statement Harry narrowed his gaze and, if Hermione hadn’t known him better, she would have thought him a tad annoyed, “What?”

“Propaganda--”

“I know that,” Harry stated, his tone a tad cold, “Who gave it to you?”

“I’m not sure. It was only a few leaflets Harry, just some stuff that screamed Light Party and what not. Explanations as to why magic needed to be regulated and contained and to keep an eye out for oddly behaving neighbors.”

“Hmm,” Harry hummed, but his face relaxed and Hermione continued--

“They want to continue a slow and, if I may express my opinion? Entirely incompetent integration of Muggle culture into wizarding sensibilities. The entire thing comes off a bit arrogant. The Light Party is my big brother and they know what’s best--that sort of rubbish. It’s just the Everyone First verses Wizard’s First spiel, that doesn’t always work beyond theorized speculation.”

Hermione poked an oddly silent Harry with the tip of her quill, hoping to shatter the ice that stuck to his persona. It was… unusual and a great deal unnerving. “One of the first bills The Light managed to pass was a destruction of separation when it comes to the House of Lords and the House of Commons, but I don’t believe that a political hierarchy can be destroyed that easily. I’m sure the House of Lords is still a practiced occurrence, just not announced as such.”

But that wasn’t the point she was trying to drive here and they were getting off track. She was not here to lecture Harry Potter on the history of political social studies. She had a feeling he knew a great deal more than she did anyway, what with being the future Lord of two houses.

“That’s just a pretty coat over how proceedings go. Obviously, the Olde Families with the most seats sit on the council. Some seats are inactive, some aren’t. You earn your spot upon the council, either through the death of someone who held seats or by wowing the council itself. So, you’d think there would be a great deal of people on the council at any given time, even if a seat is inactive. A young upstart could certainly represent their ideals in the House of Commons, if they had to.”

Harry quirked a brow then, finally thawed enough to speak-- “What are you getting at then?”

“My point is…” She frowned, “Why… well, I understand that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named spilled a lot of magical blood for a time. I know, just from research, that the Bones family suffered irreparable damage to their bloodlines, but the council just seems to be inadequately populated and heavily staffed with wizards and witches now openly speaking for The Light during a great deal of Death Eater trials.”

Harry was silent.

Hermione pressed on, “Furthermore, I’d say, ten or so wizards with higher seat counts were used to push witches--well… one--and wizards into Azkaban without so much as a presentation of evidence. Same with your godfather, Harry.”

She licked her lips.

“There’s a Barty Crouch present for every trial, however. Along with--”

“Dumbledore.”

“P-professor Dumbledore, yes.” Hermione corrected, but she didn’t much care for the glimmer in Harry’s eyes or the way he laughed as he stood from his spot on the couch. “In fact, every verdict announced as guilty he is present for. Not necessarily to vote, but certainly to watch the proceeding.”

“The puzzle pieces are not as difficult to fit together as you originally perceived, are they?”

“Harry?”

He gave another soft titter before brushing off his pajama pants and moving toward the staircase to the male dorms, “Goodnight Hermione. Get some sleep. The Goblet will choose its champions tomorrow.”

The abrupt change of subject was enough to make her sputter, “E-excuse me?”

“And, I think I’ll need to call in a favor tomorrow… I want you well rested, Hermione! To bed with you, now my knight.”

She didn’t hesitate to obey.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Outrage.

Fear.

  
Concern.

  
She hadn’t expected that last one but it was there just as powerful as the first two. That was all she felt where she sat, confused as any other student, once Harry’s name was spat from the Cup. Harry, with furrowed brow, seemed relatively calm for a _child_ that had been announced to participate in a game for adults. Had he put his name in the cup? The slight crinkle of his gaze--a sign Hermione recognized as a suppression of irritation--stated otherwise. Yet, why would a magical cup spit out his name, when only someone contending had the ability to place it?

“Come on then,” Dumbledore spoke, a slow enunciation of bewildered panic, “This way, Mr. Potter.”

The other three champions, a lovely girl of beauty, the strong Viktor Krum, and a wrinkle-faced Cedric--and who could blame him, really? He was meant to be Hogwart’s champion, after all--looked less than pleased by the development. Still, Harry rose from his seat with all the grace afforded to the surprised. With a swagger that seemed casual and curious he approached the other occupants, but after taking a look into Dumbledore’s guarded expression, his face cracked into a wide smile.

“I didn’t do this,” Harry announced, his innocent cadence displaying a thick amount of trust in the adult figure that still held onto his paper slip, “But I hope you can help me. I’m a little scared.”

The students broke out into idle uncomfortable chatter but Hermione was unable to participate as Dumbledore patted Harry’s shoulder and led him toward a side door. Whatever anyone else believed Hermione knew Harry couldn’t have possibly placed his name in the Cup. The Weasley twins were more than enough proof to show what happened when someone underage even tried.

“So someone put little Potter’s name in the Cup?”

That was most likely--oh, wait.

“Mr. Weasley.” Hermione mumbled, distracted and disinterested.

He didn’t take the hint and instead slid into the bench across from her, his lips turned down hard in a frown of discontent. “Is he so desperate for fame that he had someone do that for him?”

“I doubt it,” Hermione replied easily enough, suspicious as to why Ronald would want to speak to her of all people about such an occurrence.

“And what do you know about it, eh?” Ronald said, his gaze combing her person with the sort of suspicious disgust normally reserved for Slytherin occupants. 

“Nothing, if I’m honest.” Hermione frowned. She had better things to focus on than unnatural occurrences created by faulty school rules for formerly banished tournaments. Things like staying alive, like surviving, like--

“Come on, Granger. No need to hold back. You don’t really care for him all that much, do you?” Ron whispered, but Neville beside her heard him well enough. “He’s gonna leave you behind, once he realizes….”

His voice tapered off but that was enough to capture her attention, “Once he realizes what, Mr. Weasley?”

“Well, I mean, you’re just a bookworm. You can’t possibly have much in common beyond… like… homework assignments and such.” His smile was meant to be friendly, but there was a spark of boyish cruelty in his speech.

Now, Neville was paying attention.

She chuckled softly, “What is this really about, Weasley? What? You think Harry cheated? That I’d help him do so? You think I’d just give up information on it? I understand my dynamic with Mr. Potter, but it isn’t anything you could comprehend. It’s not my fault you two aren’t close enough.”

That made him sneer, “Oh? And you are? He goes other places without you, you know--”

“Are you spying on him?” Hermione said, incredulous.

“What’s it to you? He hangs out with those snakes, with _you_ , and with--”

Neville quirked a brow, “With me?”

“Sorry mate, everyone thought you were a Squib at first so--”

“I assure you, there is nothing Squib like about me.”

“Of course, we know that _now_ , but--”

“Mr. Weasley, if you have an issue with Potter you should just go to him yourself.”

Ronald slammed his hand on the table, just about startling all of the students as he barked-- “I just know he cheated! There is no way he would have been picked! He’s not even old enough and--”

“That’s right, he isn’t old enough. What? Do you suspect he has the power to cross the magic that kept out the minors?”

He tossed Hermione a twisted glare, but her face was carefully impassive, bored. “Then it was favoritism. He’s the precious Boy-Who-Lived, someone must have done this for him. I know it!”

The bulk of the house were paying attention to the conversation and Hermione, who positively despised drawing attention, only quietly cursed under her breath. This was not how she’d wanted to spend her evening. Furthermore, nearby, a great deal of scowling Hufflepuffs were looking their way. If anyone had the right to righteous fury it was certainly them.

She did not want to be hexed for association by those people.

“He can’t be trusted, not when he’s so close to the Slytherins--”

“Mmm,” Hermione replied, a bit peeved in their defense.

“And he’s always getting whatever he wants, like a spot the team before anyone else did--”

“I suppose.”

The more casual she tried to appear the more flustered he became, his cheeks as red as his hair--

“And another thing, everyone’s _always_ hanging on his every word.”

“Yes, of course.” Hermione muttered, “Ronald, has it ever occurred to you that Potter would need a, well, an awful lot of power to make a semi-sentient mythical object spit out his name? Even if someone put his in the Cup for him?”

Neville barked out a laugh at Ronald’s open mouthed expression.

“Well, but--”

“So, you _are_ saying Potter is powerful enough to trick an ancient mythical Cup?” Hermione took a sip of her juice before she set the cup back on the table and shifted to stand. She had work to do. Things to study before Pansy and Daphne sought her out, “Because, honestly? That’s incredibly flattering for him. He’s gracing us peons with his magnificent ability. Bloody brilliant, spectacular, awe-inspiring really.”

Then she left, Neville set to trail behind her with some good-natured laughter, while she tried to convince herself her own words weren’t true.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“This article, this...Skeeter. She was rather kind to you.”

Harry plopped onto the couch with a grunt, his body loose and relaxed while Hermione, still dressed in proper robes and uniform, held her wand carefully over a piece of parchment while several books floated in front of her. However, her gaze was not upon her research--Family Magick, this time, for Neville--but the open newspaper spread haphazardly over her lap.

“She understands the plight of a young wizard.” Harry nodded.

“Right,” Hermione said, “and this young wizard is a... What is this? ‘Suffering youth with the shadows of his past set to flicker in a glossy emerald gaze.’ Poetic.”

“You forgot the next part. That I’m ‘shoring up to seem like an expendable ill-cared for Ministry trinket.’”

“Mmm, she did say that.” Hermione frowned. “I’m to believe that this woman, Skeeter, thinks you’re being manipulated? By the Ministry?”

“And ill-cared for. But, no, I think she’s trying to say I’m a cute lil’ pet to be shown off by the Ministry to the other countries.”

“Which is why, having just Cedric--”

“Well, if it were only Cedric I wouldn’t be very well shown.”

“Yes, of course.” Hermione said.

“What else did it say?”

“Did you read it?”

“Nope,” Harry shrugged, “No time. I’m a hero after all.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose but moved forward, “She doesn’t believe the Headmaster has your best interest in mind or that he tried hard enough to keep you out of the tournament. It says that, while she initially believed you to be chasing fame, your... ‘abused demeanor’ spoke of greater concerns.”

“He’s forcing me to play.” Harry whispered, gaze on the ceiling. “Against my will.”

“It’s a binding magical contract. I...” She paused, motioning toward a book to her left, her fingertip running along the faded lines there, “I tried to find a way to stop it. However, your legal magical guardian can only… do you have a legal magical guardian, Harry?”

She gently bit her bottom lip. Did _she_ have one?

“It’s all a bit confusing.” She mumbled, “Only your guardian could possibly contest this but, even so, the magic of the contract is… well it’s a very old Cup, is all. Breaking its hold over you isn’t all that likely.”

“Bagman is excited I’m participating, I doubt he’d allow such a thing.”

“Then your guardians, you have some?”

Harry closed his eyes, “Not officially.”

“Oh.”

What _did_ Harry have anyway? Anyone? At all?

“Do you have magical guardians, Hermione?” Harry whispered.

Hermione snorted, “No. Just regular ol’ Muggle parents for this gal.”

“Hm,” Harry frowned, his nostrils flared, “That’s not good. You need someone to take care of you here, you know. Especially… well, considering…”

Hermione froze, “Considering?”

  
“Well, if something happens here, your Muggle parents can’t really… help. You need guardians, magical not mundane. They could keep you from being taken advantage of, for example, by fast-talking words that twist into vows and ink-slick contracts too tight to break. A lot of really unsafe, secure, stuff.”

Then after a time, Harry added-- “It would also afford you that extra bit of magical protection toward any... pure-blood assumptions.”

_That_ got her attention.

“It all comes back to effort. A magical guardian would provide you have an established and focused point of wizarding education. Not that you aren’t doing well on your own.”

Though Harry seemed to be helping her, she could tell he was… thinking. Scheming, even. For her benefit? She wasn’t entirely certain.

“And well, without one, you’re just another Muggle-born under Dumbledore’s control.”

“Say what now?”

Harry tilted his head back toward her, “Muggle-borns default under the Headmaster when they have no magical guardians. That means that if you, say, get into a spot of trouble or have to be removed from Hogwarts for any reason he gets to make that decision.”

Paranoia clawed down the length of her spine and the books in the air faltered before they fell, no longer able to float under the control of her magic. She sat up straighter-- “I don’t… I don’t even know him like that!”

“No need to worry,” Harry chuckled, “You’re just one more Muggle-born to him, no doubt. If anything happened to you, why, I bet he’d barely notice. After all, he didn’t seem concerned about your safety second year or... The bullying in your first.”

She felt the blood drain from her face as a startling chill coiled about her person, “He could have… helped me?”

“If you would have said something, maybe. But… you were keeping to yourself. Still, I’m of a thought that he would have said something kind but to the equivalent of growing a thicker skin.”

He shifted on the couch and turned his torso toward her, one leg propped up on the cushion while he rested one elbow on the back of the seat. He eyed her with the sort of interest one might give to an motivating project while she rubbed her face and tried not to sweat.

“This is why learning is so important. You are vulnerable right now, a shame really.” Harry tilted his head, “It all comes back down to power. Magical guardians would grant that. Security. Power. Stability.”

“B-but you don’t have--”

“Oh!” Harry smiled, “I’m not too worried about any of that! I’m worried about you, Hermione. We are _friends,_ after all.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, felt the tiny trickles of pain but barely noticed the damage she did.

“Now now,” Harry reached out a hand to pat her leg, a gentle soothing motion that was anything but, “We’ll find you some magical guardians, a nice pair of… pure-bloods should work.”

“Why,” She croaked, “Why pure-bloods?”

“Well, you are being sponsored by two of them. Plus, with my own interest that should make you a rather valuable piece--Ah, well, you never mind that. It’s just, they could protect you better. Hell, they might even be less inclined to fall for any sort of _games_ the Light might try to play.”

Questions danced on the edge of her tongue and were no doubt reflected in the depths of her trembling gaze. She needed more information. Needed to know how much impact and importance was wrapped up in the movement of her sponsorship.

How much _Harry’s_ interest would change _everything_ she thought she knew.

“And what about the Dark?” Hermione said.

Harry’s lips split wide, displaying saliva slick teeth in a move that was rather joyous, far too joyous. “Well, don’t you worry about that Hermione. I’m the hero after all.”

Then, he squeezed her captured leg, a bit too tight, tight enough that she cringed as he leaned forward with eyes a bit too wide and shadows that danced across the killing-curse green of his gaze.

“I won’t let the _Dark_ hurt you.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The sun felt nice on her skin, unusually bright and simple compared to the shadows that lurked beyond Hogwart’s walls. With everyone excited, far too excited, about the tournament and the first task, it slowly put thoughts of Death Eater attacks and former Dark Lord servants from Hermione’s mind. Besides, she felt as if she had greater things to worry about. Like Harry and his all too sure smiles, or Neville and his worship.

“Someone should shut him up.”

“Neville,” Hermione said, as she stared hopelessly down the index of _The Power of the Lord and Other Basic House Concepts_. Why Daphne wanted her to read this drivel was beyond her, but Hermione was nothing if not diligent. “Do you expect anything less from Mr. Weasley?”

Not that far from their small place of serenity was a loudly laughing red-head. He had a small group of Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors gathered around him. Attached to his robe was an innocent looking button, though as one drew closer it seemed to swell and swirl with cruel words-- _Cedric Diggory, The Real Champion,_ in one moment and, _Harry Potter Sucks_ in the next. It wasn’t a wildly popular button, at least. She knew that only a few in Slytherin house were wearing them… surprisingly. Draco’s robes were bare of any Harry admonishments, though he was his friend after all.

Only a handful of Hufflepuff wore the buttons, usually on the much tamer setting, while Ronald and his ‘Crew of Justice’ wore them on the other. It didn’t seem to bother Harry, who had laughed outrageously when Ronald had first shown him the different settings, making the other boy’s cheeks flush red enough to consume the entirety of his face.

“That’s so brilliant!” Harry had crowed, seeming genuinely amused.

Ronald had lost a few button wearers after that, perhaps bored by the lack of impact they were making or ashamed by their piss-poor house loyalty and support of their own champion. That hadn’t stopped him from scowling and trying to push them on others. Hermione had avoided him thus far, keeping to the library or Neville.

Right now, however, Ronald was moving toward them, Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown, and Seamus Finnigan behind him.

“Show time,” Hermione mumbled, before her gaze dropped back to the book on her lap and Neville noisily gathered up the parchment Hermione had been scribbling on for him. 

“Well well, if it isn’t Longbottom and know-it-all Granger.”

“Good Afternoon, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione answered, cordial, numb, and bored.

Neville only glanced up at him, his lips twisted into a hard frown at the sight of the buttons they wore.

“Did you forget your button this morning, Hermione?” Lavender cooed, her arm wrapped around one of Ron’s own.

“No.” She answered, simply.

“No?” Ron frowned, “Why aren’t you wearing it then? I gave one to everybody.”

“And not everybody is wearing one,” Neville cut in, teeth displayed in a snarl.

Hermione placed a hand gently upon Neville’s arm, knowing that his dislike of Weasley went beyond just Harry. Ronald had not done Neville any favors when the bulk of first year thought him a failure and a Squib. If anything, in Ronald’s desperate attempts to befriend Harry, he’d often, purposely, belittled and tried to leave Neville behind.

“Ick,” Ronald grunted, as if Neville’s opinion was irrelevant, “So you’re supporting a cheater?”

“I’m supporting my house,” Hermione blinked, “Togetherness, and loyalty and all that, though I admit we aren’t Hufflepuffs.”

“We stand for justice, over some flimsy sense of loyalty. What Harry did was wrong, Granger and--”

“Finnigan,” Hermione interrupted, peeking up between wild locks of hair, “Your opinion of Potter, no matter what it be, isn’t relevant outside the walls of our Common Room. In-house squabbles should stay just that, in-house. You lot make us look divided and unsure.”

_Weak._

_Fools._

She was just about to return her gaze back to the book before Ronald reached down, snatching it from her grip with a snarl before tossing it into a screaming cluster of first year Ravenclaws.

“What the heck would you know anyway? Loyalty? Unity? You barely pay your own house any attention. You hang out with the Slytherins--”

“I study with the Slytherins--”

“--Who cares why you hang with the snakes? If you wanted to be one, you should have, but wait… ah yeah, they don’t take people like you.”

Neville went tense at her side and she calmly blinked at the boy before her gaze shifted to the cluster of curious Ravenclaws hovering around her, perhaps, not so school sanctioned book.

“Like me?”

The boy--Finnigan--narrowed his eyes, but his look of mild contempt was all for Ronald.

“Yeah, with your status. You know what they call you behind you back? A little mudblood. A dirty wench. You’re a pariah, whether you’re with us or not. I’m just trying to help you and unless you get it into your tiny little so called clever brain that no one gives a damn about anything you have to say out here, then you won’t be anything but some mudblood swot--”

Brown gasped softly, her lips flapping open and closed as Thomas and Finnigan grimaced so hard their faces twisted into something grotesque.

“I uh…” Ronald spared a glance to his male companions, “Not that you guys are anything like that. You’re cool. You actually listen to reason and--”

“I understand Granger is a know-it-all, we get it, and right boring to boot, but what’s her blood got to do with any of it?” Thomas said.

“What do you mean? The Slytherins--”

“Have been leavin’ ‘er alone, I think.”

“Other than the odd hex or two, they don’t bother me much in terms of aggression. The only person reminding me of what I am lately, has been…” She made an exasperated hand motion toward Ronald and Dean’s scowl deepened.

“We’re gonna have to have a talk about this, mate.” Thomas sneered before he and Finnigan turned and began to march back toward the school.

“What! Wait? Bloody hell, I’m just trying too--!” He paused in his yelling, if only to turn back to Hermione and ball his fist.

Neville’s wand was immediately in his grip, his eyes wide and glossy, waiting, eager--

“You’ll pay for manipulating my friends, Granger! I know you’re up to something, something _dark--_ ” He spat out, as if the very word were an affront to his feelings, “with the snakes. Why else would Malfoy want to be around _you?_ What do you do with them, day in and day out?! How could they possibly tolerate--how could Potter tolerate--”

Ronald screamed then, his body ripped from the earth with enough force to jerk him forward, until he was flat on the ground and groaning, hands on his arse. Behind him stood Luna, her wand smoking slightly, her expression curious-- “Oops.”

Hermione stood quickly, wanting to be as far away from Ronald and the sun that suddenly seemed _far too bright._

“I have to go, I have to--”

It had been far too long since she’d checked. Far too long since she’d peeled back the length of her sweater and released the red that reminded her she was alive and not some filthy construct of muck--

“No,” Neville said, his grip upon her arm-- _the_ arm--hard and unrelenting. “Let’s go.”

Without waiting for Luna, he marched her stiffly back toward the castle, his face set in a hard line. Luna, needing no prompt, trailed beside them, Hermione’s recovered book within her gloved and smudged hands.

Hermione winced, there would be something slimy and slick all over the perfect bindings--

“I’ve had enough,” Neville croaked. “Tonight, we’ll do it tonight.”

His mutterings, so soft Hermione nearly missed them, were barely understood.

“I won’t be able to witness it.” Luna dreamily sighed.

“It’s an inner house thing,” Neville smiled gently, but when he turned back to Hermione she could see the rolling loathing beyond the gentleness of his concern. “It has to be done tonight, the favor.”

“What favor?” Hermione said, a bubbling weariness eating away at her strength and the need to peel back her flesh, “What’s... Happening?”

“It’s a good night to hold a court. Bonds are best forged under the light of the full moon,” Luna chirped, “He wants you to remove his crown. Harry will be most pleased if it’s right before dinner. Show the Lords and Ladies your den is not a righteous mess.”

Then, after a moment, Luna gave a soft laugh and nodded her head, ear tilted toward the sun as it were saying things only she could hear. “If you do well I’ll get you a much better book. This one is covered in slime.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The Common Room was alight with nervous energy. Harry had yet to return from whatever it was that Harry did to prepare for the tournament and Ronald, after storming in all brimstone and fire, had begun to screech and yell and point accusing fingers in her direction.

It was all rather annoying.

For the most part Neville remained calm during the engagement, his position on the plush arm chair kitty-corner to her own a reflection of regal pure-blood posture. Something else was at play here. Neville was generally relaxed or manic, but never completely at ease. Never so... Slytherin.

That did nothing to ease Ronald’s high pitched yelling.

“What the hell did you and your looney friend do? What sort of magic was that?!”

Hermione groaned and repressed the urge to slouch, the old paper detailing Sirius Black trail-that-wasn’t forgotten and left to fall on the floor.

“Um, regular?” Hermione said, weakly.

“Regular? Regular magic?” Ronald spat.

With a grunt Hermione sat up, a frown set upon her face, “Ah, I apologize. Magic can’t really be ‘regular’ now can it? That would be an assumption that magic is mundane enough to be assigned said descriptor. Nearly a contradiction in terms--”

The sound that burst past Ronald’s twisted upper lip was both inhumane and attention grabbing. Soon enough, their small corner had a slight audience--a few curious first-years, some irritated second and third years, and interested peers playing at minding their own business. She could feel their gaze upon her person, sense their judgement and the intensity of their growing hunger…

_For, Ronald Weasley was their King, was he not? This herald of the Light, this beacon of Gryffindor pride and stolen power?_

_When he called for them, they came. When he proclaimed his decrees, they listened. Begrudgingly, yet intently._

And here she stood, beyond his court of control, often belittled and left forgotten.

When had she grown her bravery? When had confidence ever swelled in her breast and pulled back her shoulders? When had pride in her person, when thirst for _stability_ , driven her every action and need?

When had she decided to stop being so weak?

She supposed it was when Ronald had become far to annoying to be ignored.

Or, when Harry had unspokenly commanded her to succeed.

“Granger,” Ronald barked, “You are constantly trying to make a fool of me--”

“--I doubt I’ve done such a thing on my own--”

“But this time, _this time_ , you will not walk away from this like some innocent victim.”

For a moment Hermione sat back in her chair, “Excuse me?”

“This is your fault, you know! If you would just do like you _should--_ ”

“And what is it, Ronald? That I _should_ be doing?” Hermione whispered, head tilted in a mockery of innocent curiosity, as her heart hammered like some trapped thing within her chest.

“You’re a bad influence! It’s you who drove Potter toward the snakes--” Ronald started.

Hermione let loose an incredulous laugh, even as the crowd about them thickened, students returning from afternoon free-time now occupied by the performance Ronald seemed intent on displaying, “You can’t possibly be serious.”

For a moment Ronald hesitated, his gaze narrowed, before his lips spread in a lopsided grin that was more malicious than friendly. “I’m very serious.”

She rose from her seat, no longer content with attempting to play the uninvolved party. While his look, meant to inspire unease, remained focused on her person. “He might have got that idea from you! When he saw them using you and all.”

“Using me?” She said.

“For their personal enjoyment,” Ron sneered, “And then, you thought you’d get him all wrapped up in that mess. It’s why he doesn’t have much time for the rest of us. He’s far too busy babysitting the likes of _you!”_

Her nostrils flared as her gaze widened, “Babysitting?”

“He’s just asking the snakes to bugger off, you know. When he’s fed up with trying to turn you into a _person_ to them, they’ll just start up again. He plays a good game, Potter, at being kind and generous but we aren’t as blind as _some._ ”

Ronald gave a very pointed look toward Neville, who watched him with all the interest of someone bored and barely focused. It wasn’t a look that gave him much confidence, but he pressed on.

After all, Neville was not his target, now was he?

“He’ll turn against you once he realizes how _dark_ you are, and once the snakes realize there isn’t much magic in you--”

She felt her cheek twitch and her breath catch--

“--He’s return to the proper path, you know. He’s looking for real talent and a good sort of friends. I’m not sure you can provide much of that.”

With a snort, he gave an idle wave of hand towards Neville, “And certainly, not this bloke.”

Neville’s only admission of anger was the slow release of air from flared nostrils and the sudden violent _snap_ of his Herbology book as he shut it.

“So, if you know what's’ good for you, what’s good for Gryffindor, you’d just tell me what sort of magic you used on me and _maybe_ I’ll forgive you.” Whether Ronald was stirred by the swelling mumble of their audience or her silence she didn’t know, but he continued to speak with a broad grin and cheeks flushed in his pleasure, “You do know that forbidden magic, especially anything dark, is against the rules, right? You could be expelled for what you did to me! I’m just trying to keep you safe, you know. All of us.”

Finally, with hands upon his hips he leaned forward, a nice play at graciousness and mercy, “But I’m not a bad guy, Granger. You help me get Potter back on the right path and we can forget all about this. Though, once it’s all done, maybe you and Longbottom should leave ‘em alone. Wouldn’t want him to be tempted to desperation trying to keep you safe.”

His final hiss, the finality of his tone, and the way the other Gryffindors frowned and nodded--bobbing along to his gospel, swept up in his propaganda--was more than she could bare. The fact that Neville remained silent was the absolute worst part about the entire ordeal. What did he want from her? What did _they_ want from her?

She ground her teeth as her gaze grew narrowed, as her nostrils flared with the deep almost frantic breaths of her indecision. What was the best choice, the right choice? To embrace the numbness of loneliness? To believe in the speech of the ignorant yet powerful?

**No.**

“I find your drivel an unwanted interruption,” Hermione croaked, her throat tight but her tone suspiciously steady. “Harry is not some slave to the circumstances that surround my victimization.”

No, Harry was his own being. Some terrifying force that swept up those around him and twisted them to his own perversions. She could feel it in her very core, could sense the nervous thump of his magic as it coated the walls of the Common Room--subtle, yet present, so very present. They thought him a saint, and he called himself a hero, but she knew he was so much more than that.

“What do you know of the dark?” Hermione whispered.

Ronald paused, his nose wrinkled with displeasure, “It’s all nasty business. Forbidden magic.”

“It’s also a political party--”

“I’m not asking you for a bloody lecture,” Ronald hissed.

“And shame on me if I would dare waste my time to give you one,” Hermione responded. “I’m merely correcting your assumption that you believe I’ve used anything dark on you. “

She took a deep breath, relishing the silence that prevailed in the space, “If I were going to do something dark, Weasley, you would know, from the very depths of your soul, that it was _dark_.”

A murmur of unease shook the group but Ronald only seemed more pronounced in his assured dominance, “So you’re admitting you know dark magic?”

“Do you?”

Now that got the crowd around them talking.

“Don’t try to change the subject--”

“--and what is dark magic, really? Who determines that classification? What makes it dark and not just magic? Is it potency? The ability to harm? To destroy? To kill? A witch worth their salt can do that with any type of magic.”

She sneered then, face twisted in irritation, a look that seemed to surprise her audience and Ronald, if his open mouth was any indication, “Don’t come to me, with barely any knowledge of the craft, then claim that I can work Morgana level wonders.”

Maybe it was Neville’s soft laughter or maybe it was the rolling wave of dismissal now coursing through their collective, but Ronald suddenly had his wand in hand with tight grip and crab-colored splotches on cheeks.

“Granger!” Ronald barked, all fire and ire. “I, Ronald Weasley, last son of the House of Weasley, challenge you to a wizard’s duel!”

That got everyone talking, if the sudden burst of excitement among the rowdy Gryffindors were any indication. It was also surprising that Ronald held any knowledge in the proper ritual of challenge--in any stock in his own supposedly fallen family, who had at least taught him enough of the order of the gentry to instigate madness. 

“You dishonor this house! You’re no lion,” He hissed, “I won’t be fooled by your play at innocence! You’re a manipulative swot who thinks being a Muggle-born will save you from the laws of this world. I won’t have you sully our colors with your influence.”

Now Neville stood and the loud barking from the crowd settled as dorm rooms were emptied and the rapid patter of feet stormed down stairs. The space was being rearranged, first years pushed aside so that older students could shove chairs and tables out of their placement to clear room for something Hermione wasn’t entirely prepared to face.

“What…?” She said, though her soft tone of surprise was swallowed by the other more experienced pure-blood’s explaining whatever Ronald had done to those with similar looks of confusion and discomfort.

“Fine,” Neville said, disinterested, as he placed a hand against the small of her back, “Sponsored House Granger will accept your challenge, backed by The Most Ancient and Noble House of Longbottom.”

“Sponsored?” Ronald asked, though only half paying attention as he moved toward the center of the room.

To this Neville just shrugged. Clearly, someone knew more aspects about their traditions than the other and weren’t all that willing to share. Furthermore, only a few of the students around them seemed impacted by Neville’s statement and it was a furiously whispering Katie Bell that leaned over to a frowning Angelina as she moved a chair out of Hermione’s immediate path.

Voices continued to filter in--

“You woke me for this?”

“You’d want to miss it?”

Interjected with--

“I haven’t seen an in-house challenge since my second year.”

“My brother, bless his wild soul, was dragged into one before. The poor loser lost ‘is ring--”

Soon the room was packed, though they had left the center rather open. The once distinguishable wave of chatter melted into something hive like and incomprehensible. Most of the students were on the side-lines closer to Ronald, though Neville stood on her side of the room before calling out casually-- “Support.”

There was silence then before two twin redheads, with wild matching grins, shuffled over to ruffle Neville’s hair and clothing in a manner Hermione thought must have been bothersome. Though, she jerked a nervous look over her shoulders when they both called out, rather jolly-like, “Support!”

“Any lass going against our ickle hot-headed brother--”

“--is a lass that deserves our cheers!”

That did nothing to lessen Ronald’s outrage.

Soon, a slowly moving Katie--whose hand was clutched rather strongly around Angelina’s wrist--wandered over to stand behind the twins with a soft cough of, “Support.”

Which Angelina mirrored, if a bit hesitantly.

“Why?” Ronald barked, “You all dark witches and wizards too? You really think that she can protect you?”

The cultural implications of their situation were irrelevant, but the fact that several older students seemed inclined to stand on her side was enough to bolster Hermione’s fragile courage.

“Well, I certainly think she’s a bit smarter than you,” Katie said.

“Gotta be something good, for all that knowledge, you know? Especially for someone you claim to be using dark magic.” Angelina shrugged.

Lee Jordan, who stood within the center, merely laughed, “I’m not too sure about it, but I love it! Such unexpected excitement!”

“Don’t you go announcer on us in here, this is all really serious.” Dean mumbled.

Then, there was silence and nobody else moved from their spaces.

“One last chance to back out, Granger.” Ronald said, “You admit to Potter that you don’t need him keeping the snakes off you and let us help, yah? Then you tell us all what sorta dark spells you’ve been getting up to, you know, so we can keep you from hurting yourself.”

What a load of rubbish.

She took a deep breath and wrinkled her nose for a moment, thoughtful… before she shook her head. They’d wasted enough time and she had studies to accomplish. She, at least, knew how to proceed forward now.

“Second, Heir Longbottom.”

Neville stepped up with the casual flare of a boy practiced with displaying nobility while Hermione took care to lift her wand and place it before her, point toward the ceiling, in the standard dueling pose. If Ronald was surprised by her knowledge of dueling arts, he didn’t say anything and instead, tossed over his shoulder a hastily barked--

“Come on, Finnigan.”

The boy did not look pleased at being dragged up to the front, but he stood in place with arms crossed and wand at the ready.

Once he was place Ronald turned back to her, sly grin set to conquer his expression and, without even a bow of his head--as was proper-- he tossed at her a yelled--” _Furnunculus!”_

Someone’s yelp of ‘rude!’ went ignored as Hermione twisted her torso to the left, ignoring the streaming light that spiraled off and through the space she had once occupied, uselessly, against a seventh year’s well prepared shielding charm.

He didn’t hold back after that.

His barked-out hexes came forward in a steady stream and Hermione found herself jerking and dancing around the spell work like an uncultured puppet. She wasn’t graceful, by any means, but she was quick on her feet at least--

Maybe, she’d have to thank Pansy for all those _hunting_ sessions the other girl would often enact whenever she’d been irritated with her.

It was only frustrating that, despite Ronald’s less than stellar performances in most of their class, he had an easily recalled repertoire of spells she would have found on an accomplished bully. Or Draco Malfoy, which she supposed wasn’t too different.

But it was predictable enough.

The only pause in his spellwork came when he found cause to laugh at her-- “What’s all this, Granger? You really can’t fight back can you?”

She remained silent, her breath set to ease in and out of her person in steady pants-

_As her blood thundered in her ears and vicious warmth filled her belly._

_As a sense of being **alive** hummed through her veins and brought her magic to her tingling fingertips to be twisted into whatever she could imagine._

She wasn’t prepared for the thickness of it, for the wildness that she could practically taste on the back of her tongue or the _heat_ that thudded through her, heavy and punishing with so much bound fury that it was nearly frightening. He had the power to do something, they all did. He’d had the ability to stop them, once upon a time, and the so-called righteousness to keep her safe--as he now claimed wont to do, via humiliation.

Yet, she had suffered for them, for this house, for precious Gryffindor, which had done nothing in return. She had given it so **much** , had fed it with her agony, with her very blood, with her tears and precious nights wondering _why why why--_

And it was time for it to pay.

So, when Ronald’s next strike shot toward her she moved without thought, her wand going through a motion that was both foreign and familiar, an instant perfect replication of something drawn from Harry’s precious books.

And the spell went wild, flung away from her person to smash against the ceiling and force rock to rumble with the threat of dislodging.

Not a word came past her lips.

There’s a soft hiss in the audience, a gasp, but the background noise failed to reach her. The only thing she could hear was the song of her magic, the strength of her loathing, the rolling boiling _need for more_ that clawed at her belly and made her skin feel tight and hot.

With a snarl Ronald thrust his wand forward again, his uttered spell set to burst from the tip of his wand with so much conviction--

And again, with practiced movement, she intercepted it, jerking only slightly when it slammed against the rippling space before her wand before, with a flex of her wrist, she thrust it toward her back.

This time there was a scream and the sound of yacking.

“What…” Ronald whispered, “How are you…?”

Magic filled her being and she felt _weightless_ , empowered by the notion that she was so very much a witch and so much more than Ronald had anticipated. Those sleepless nights spent beneath her covers, with only her tears to coat the pages of text she combed with desperation, had not been for nothing.

Now it was her turn to smile.

  
She twisted on the tips of her feet in a motion meant to gather momentum and cover intricate wand movements before magic streamed from her wand without so much as a _word_.

That too, was her carefully guarded secret, a bit of wordless magic she would always treasure, but her most proud one.

And when it slammed into a flabbergasted Ronald and _froze_ him, he could do nothing more as Hermione swung her wand forward again--this time, his raised hand was knocked back, the wand blown from his grip by a concessive force that jerked him around on barely functioning feet.

The final spell was what _threw_ him from the center of the room and onto his back with a hard and audible ‘oomph’. The crowd split like a frightened sea, giving sight to a chest heaving Ronald.

While Hermione slowly lowered her wand with a scowl, “That’s it?”

The magic still swam within her, it still sung its seductive tune of ecstasy, begging for _more._

“Get up,” She panted, raspy, her tone thick with longing. “I’m not _done._ ”

Not after being dead for so long, not after thirsting for release.

Ronald groaned and twitched as he tried to sit up and his second, nervously stood at his side. With wand drawn and pointed toward her direction Finnigan yelped, “Back.”

The look in her gaze, the startling clarity, the craving of their _fear_ , was enough to make the poor lad flinch.

The slow lick of her lips that took place afterwards, made the hand that held his wand tremble.

The crowd shifted, swept by nervous anticipation, and soft murmurs rolled through them like constantly changing dreams. She felt teased by their elation, pushed by their curiosity and their cautious tones. She kept her wand steady, it’s tip aimed and sure. One more spell, her magic whispered, just one more _spell_ and maybe they’d all see that she was not some _thing_ to be pitied, to be tolerated. So was so much more than just _mud._

“Move,” the voice that came from Ronald seemed alien in his body, unsteady and anxious despite its command. It was enough for his second though, or maybe poor Finnigan simply had no desire to keep her back. After all, Ronald had gotten himself into this mess, surely he could get himself out.

Hermione was patient either way, and she watched with wide eyes and wider smile as he pulled himself from the floor with shaking legs and a heaving chest. His knees knocked once or twice, and a pinched laugh filtered from the crowd, but otherwise the silence felt nearly tangible.

“Yes,” she hissed, “yes yes yes.”

“Shut up,” His face was a twisted masterpiece of contempt, but furthermore, there whipped storms of terror in the depths of his gaze, terror that made her breath quicken and her hands feel slick. Nothing had ever looked at her like that… and even though it was just a seed within the shadows of his temper, she’d seen it. Acknowledged it.

She readied herself, ignored the sweat that dripped down her forehead and the rumble of Neville’s chest as he slyly cut--

“Look at the King of Gryffindor, our courageous most fearsome lion, with his shaking knees and pale flesh. Shamed by a swot, the crumbling House of Weasley.”

It was nearly impossible to tell the parlor of Ronald’s cheeks from the sweat-slick color of his hair. His chest heaved in wild pants and his gaze widened at the indignation of her partner. Whatever Neville had said, had certainly struck a chord, and had Hermione been focused on anything other than the thudding adrenaline that hummed beneath her flesh she might have found his statement and the prose of it, odd. Still, the crowd reacted expectantly, losing tension as a guffaw or two broke from the mob.

“It’s true, innit?” A voice came from the back.

“Is he really our King?” Came another, feminine and confused.

“What is any of this? Is this really happening?” Asked a first year.

But it was Lee’s voice that delightfully called out-- “We haven’t had a King in sometime, but I don’t deny the pull he’s had. Why, what a charismatic little annoyance!”

Ronald whipped his head around so fast to face Lee’s direction that Hermione thought he’d snap his neck. His mouth opened and closed, his tongue wriggling against the roof, but no words escaped a throat tight with anger.

“ ‘e has a way with words, ‘e does.”

“That’s our brother, always getting into things he really shouldn’t.”

“But he is popular--”

“--I’d say he was a King.”

“Before this,” the twins said in unison, their jolly voices laced with just the slightest pinch of disgust. But Hermione must have imagined that.

“ ‘e’s no Charlie.”

“Or Willy.”

Ronald cracked out a ‘stop’ but the angry flush of his cheeks had by then reached a splotched and straining neck.

Angelina voice cut through the throng, unamused and slightly agitated, “In all the years I’ve been in Gryffindor, I’ve never seen us weaker as a unit than now.”

That was enough to grasp Hermione’s attention, to pull it away from the heavy thud of her own lust for battle. She swallowed thickly and straightened her back, but kept her wand out and ready. She held no illusions that Ronald would retaliate, if she let her guard down.

“Especially,” she continued, “if the snakes pay more attention to our own than we do.”

Ronald found his voice, “Of course they pay attention to her!” He stomped his foot like a petulant child, “She’s _dark_.”

Neville’s snort was the only response.

“And just what the hell did she do? Did you see any of that? That’s a sign of--”

“A powerful dueler, if a bit sloppy. I’ve seen better, my older brother is an Auror,” A voice, unknown and unfamiliar, said over the crowd, “Still, she’s holding her own well enough against you.”

“It’s not a fourth-year technique, it’s allowed to be sloppy,” Katie said slowly, though her voice too seemed bored, “But…”

She looked away from the crowd and instead cast her gaze to the ceiling, as if she were in casual thought, “If I were going to be a knight for any King, I might consider this one.”

“I’ll actively consider anyone, so long as it isn’t a Weasley.”

Though Hermione wasn’t sure who had tossed in their opinion--earning an indignant ‘hey!’ from the twins--she knew that that statement had crossed a particular line. The crowd started shouting questions--

“Is that really a thing? Kings and all that rubbish?”

“We aren’t a bunch of snakes, we don’t need any--”

“--All the houses have a hierarchy, kid, they just don’t tell you--”

“--for what purpose? We were fine as we were!”

“You’ve been up under him since you both got here, Dean. You can’t tell me he isn’t _your_ King!”

“This must be a pure-blood thing--”

And so on and so forth. It was enough to nearly ease Hermione’s shoulders, to see such... chaotic support from her own house--though one could claim they were merely being opportunistic, not supportive.

“The seventh-years can explain more about it, it’s just a person that sets the ideals a house is governed by--”

“--Hey, do you suppose that prat Malfoy is King of Slytherin?”

“ _DIFFENDO_!”

Had Ronald not been so loud, so determined, so full of pumping _loathing_ , she might have missed his screech beyond the excited chatter of their audience circle. As it was, her attention had still been unfocused, torn in several different directions as too many faces pulled for her attention and spoke about an foggy future. She saw the beam of light burst from Ronald’s wand, felt the collision of it as it collided into her half formed--and half assed--Protego, and jerked from the wicked _burst_ of agony that licked along her flesh as both spells seemed to implode upon her. His severing charm brought an unnerving slickness to her flesh and her Protego’s cruel burst of cold as it broke swept over her face and shoulders.

Her feet lifted off the ground for just a moment, sending her stumbling backwards as she lost her balance--

But she did not fall, not even when he screamed out his next successive string of spells--concussive multi-shot jinxs that beat at her arms and chest as she brought them up to hastily shield her face.

And still she did not fall, even when she felt her robes flap about her--tattered and torn--and the power behind his shots grew erratic and sloppy, differing in strength and precision. Yet, she did react the same, wanting him to know that beyond her wall--

She was growing furious, but not illogical.

The crowd was reacting, shouting, sprouting nonsense as Ronald continued his assault, the whiplash of his erratic sloppy magic, and the fact that the duel wasn’t technically over, keeping them weary and at bay. He drew near but she allowed him, she let him swing his arm and wand about with little finesse as he made a pug like sound of triumph at her suffering. She slouched and kept her guard up, her hand tight around her wand, even as he thought his spells grew more effective than less. She let him approach as he wound his arm up dramatical, to the roar of Neville at her back as he lifted his wand--

And then she surged forward with a snarl in a tackle, her roar less feminine and more… well… _positively wild, thick and dripping with her incomprehensible rage._

She felt his weight give, his body surprised and his knees perhaps still weak from her earlier assault and his express of magic. She felt the rippling impact when he fell onto his back, prone beneath her as she drove her knees into his chest. They soon slid off as he bucked and rasped for air--struggling to breath past the initial pain of their combined landing--and they nestled perfectly upon his forearms, rendering his hands useless and her skirt ineffective but she didn’t care.

Let them see her knickers, she’d hear the lecture about witch **propriety** later.

With her wand pressed into his throat she drew back her hand, balled it into a fist, and swung it down.

Hard.

Again, and again.

She felt his flesh yield beneath her knuckles. Felt his yell of fear as her own skin split and her hand began to ache, but she relished the power over him, the power that came from good ol’ fisticuffs and proficiency with the body.

She’d beaten him with her wand earlier, after all. Like a good and proper duelist. So, she deserved this moment, this wicked wicked guilty pleasure.

She only managed to get a few good whacks before Neville’s scream for Finnigan to stay back broke her from the lust of her rage. She trembled above him, stared at his bruised and swollen face as he flinched beneath her. She inhaled deeply with wide gaze and sweat slick body as blood dripped from a cut on her lip and a gash that bled heavily from her shoulder. Her entire being _ached_ , pulsed with conflicting agonies and wild excitement. With hunger and thirst, with the screaming chorus of being _alive_.

Of _power._

Footsteps approached slowly from behind, their gait familiar and comforting, while others hastily came from the front.

She croaked out a shaky, “I’m finished.” On the verge of tears.

With a heavenly smile upon her face.


End file.
